Don't Close Your Eyes
by MaverickLover2
Summary: Someone shot his brother and Bart Maverick is out for answers and revenge
1. Chapter 1 Sneaking Into Town

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 1 – Sneaking Into Town

The train pulled into the station right on time and Bart heard the conductor yell "DENVER! ALL OFF FOR DENVER!" Gee, couldn't they let a guy sleep? Especially one that had just finished a sixteen hour marathon of poker, poker, and more poker?

The operative word was "DENVER!" He'd been traveling for two days and he doubted he'd slept more than an hour or two in that time. Certainly would be good to get up and stretch his legs, even if he still needed the cane that had become his constant companion every once in a while. He stood and braced himself with that cane while he gathered his bag, then started for the door. How many times had he been met at this very station by Bret? Not this time, however. Whoever was following his brother had caused him to go into hiding and it was up to Bart to get to the Denver Palace Hotel by himself. Several long blocks later he was leaning heavily on the cane as his lack of sleep and recently healed wounds caused him no end of grief.

By the time he finally got there he was in need of a room. There was a new front desk clerk that he didn't know, so he decided to give Bart Maverick a vacation. He checked in as 'Bartley Jamison' and inquired about a hotel guest named 'Breton Joseph.'

"Yes, Mr. Jamison, Mr. Joseph is registered here. He's in room 316. But he's out right now. Would you like to leave a message for him?"

"Please. Tell him I've arrived and I'm in room 324. I'll be expecting him."

"Thank you, Mr. Jamison. I'll be sure Mr. Joseph gets the message. Do you have any bags?"

Bart looked down at the lonely, half-empty bag he carried. He needed some clothes to replace those that had been destroyed in Nevada. "Just one today."

The desk clerk motioned a bellhop over and directed him to "take Mr. Jamison's bag to room 324."

Bart took the key and followed the bellhop up to the room. Good thing he had the cane, with three flights of stairs to navigate. He entered the room and flipped a coin to the bellhop, then locked the door behind him and braced a chair against it. He'd learned the hard way not to leave his door unsecured. He took off his coat and hat and unbuttoned his vest, then untied his tie and finally his gun belt. The gun belt and gun stayed next to him in the bed. Another painful lesson learned the hard way.

Much as he wanted to know what was going on with Bret, at this moment he wanted sleep more. He lowered himself onto the bed and didn't bother with blankets. He was out almost immediately, a skill learned after many years of staying up all night playing poker.

It seemed like only a few minutes before he heard a persistent knocking. He was up out of the bed and at the door, gun drawn, before he heard "Psssst. Bart. It's me." He pulled the chair away and unlocked the door. From the expression on his brother's face he knew better than to say anything with Bret out in the hall. He motioned his brother inside with the gun and closed and locked the door behind him.

Bret threw his arms around Bart and felt the shoulder blade bones in his back. Good Lord, he was wafer thin again. It had been several months since their last encounter. Then he saw the cane leaning up against the bed and could draw only one conclusion. "What happened this time?"

"Never mind all that. I'll give you the full story later. What's with the disguise?" Bart referred to the name Bret had registered under and the way he'd followed suit.

"Oh you mean 'Breton Joseph?' You're the only one that would know it was me. Besides, Mr. Jamison, I see you registered the same." Other than Pappy and Beau, they were the only two people on earth who knew each other by their full names and simply omitted the 'Maverick' when necessary. Obviously this was one of those times. Bret flopped down on the bed and handed the gun belt and holster to Bart. "Better put this on."

Bart strapped on the proffered gun belt and asked, curiously, "That bad, huh?"

Bret smiled and was quick with an answer, "I don't know, Brother Bart. Somebody's chasin' me."

"Seriously?"

"As a pair of deuces."

"Start at the beginning. I've got time." Bart put his foot up on a chair to secure the leg tie to his leg. Bret noticed his younger brother wince when first bracing his foot on the chair and again when he took it down. He was going to want a detailed explanation of the wince and just what caused it. When he and Bart parted company in Sante Fe he was almost back to being himself. Now here he was again, thin and in need of meat on his bones, still carrying the cane around and acting for all the world like he'd been injured anew. Bret shook his head.

"What's that for?" Bart asked innocently.

Bret pointed at the cane. "What's that for?"

"At dinner. I promise."

"Alright," the older Maverick started. "When I left you I went to San Francisco, stayed there about a month. Left for Denver. Made several small detours along the way. Got close to Virginia City and noticed I was being followed. Stopped in there and left the message with Gerald at the Gold Rush. Whoever it is's been doggin' me all this way, never gettin' close enough to see clearly. Thought I lost 'em around Grand Junction but the night I got here they were back with me. One rider, dark gray mount. Been dodgin' shadows ever since. More than once I've had that bein' watched feeling. So far I haven't caught anybody."

Bart turned the chair and sat on it backwards. "You owe money to anybody but me?"

A half-laugh, then a question. "Does Pappy count?"

"Nope. Pappy'd just kill you for it. Or send me to fetch it. Anybody's husband chasin' you?"

Bret shook his head no. "You know after what happened with Constanza I always ask if they're married."

"Yeah, that was a painful warning." Bart thought about the load of buckshot and believed Bret's sorrowful plea that he'd learned his lesson. "We must be missing somethin'."

"I agree. I just don't know what. Thought maybe if you were here we could flush out whoever it is and find out what I'm bein' accused of this time." A pause, and then, "You were ready to leave Carson City, weren't you?"

Bart stood and walked away from the chair, over to the window. He grimaced slightly on standing and turned sideways quickly so that Bret didn't see it. "Yes." And then a few seconds later, "No."

"Which is it?"

"Yes and no."

"Bart?"

"It's complicated."

"Uh-oh. I smell a woman. Serious?"

"Do you really need to know?" Bart asked peevishly.

"Ah-ha. Serious." _'Good,'_ thought Bret. _'Maybe he's finally over Caroline.'_

"Do you want my help or not?" Bart was still just a little angry. Did Bret have to put his nose into everything? Especially things Bart still wasn't sure enough to talk about?

A small laugh escaped Bret but he quickly stifled it. He could see his brother was in no mood to discuss the subject, whoever she was. Back to the problem at hand. "Of course I want your help. In spite of what you think I always want your help."

Bart had to do a little back-peddling at this point. "Sorry. Not ready yet. How about dinner? I'm starved."

"Yes, I should certainly think so. Let's go to the dining room and see if we can fatten you up." Bret slapped his brother on the shoulder, and saw Bart wince slightly. "You can tell me all about your friend, Mr. Cane." He pointed at the object as he named it. "And why he's still living with you."


	2. Chapter 2 The Next Kill

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 2 – The Next Kill

Bret had to laugh. His brother's idea of a meal wouldn't feed a small child. At least he ate it, every bit of it, and actually ordered pie for dessert. Coffee too, although when it came all Bart could think of was the black carada coffee from Carson City. Ah, if only Bret had tasted it!

"Ok, little brother, I've been waitin' for over an hour for an explanation of the cane and the pain I keep seein' whenever you move wrong. Time's run out. What's the story?"

Bart set down his coffee cup. "Not much to tell, really. Went to spend some time with Anderson and his daughter. Had some trouble while I was there. Got stabbed. You know, the usual."

Bret looked at his brother with more than concern on his face. He was worried about Bart, and didn't understand why pain and trouble always seemed to find him. "I believe I deserve a more complete explanation than that."

"No, you really don't. Anderson had some double-dealin' cheats trying to swindle him out of his land and I helped stop them." He really didn't want to go into any more detail. "Oh, yeah, the Governor said I was 'resourceful and dedicated.' How's that for a mouthful? Maybe he shoulda talked to Judge Kincaid. Might have had a different opinion."

"And the cane? You were almost done with that months ago."

"A – uh, slight problem I ran into." He couldn't be lucky enough for Bret to just let it go, could he?

"What kind of a problem?"

Of course not, big brother had to know everything. Alright, he wanted to know. "A very pointed problem."

Silence. Then a flicker of understanding. "A knife?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Bret blinked and asked the next question, although he was sure he didn't want to hear the answer. "Once?"

Bart was positive his brother didn't want the answer. "Three times."

In a very quiet voice Bret asked him: "How bad was it?"

"Bad."

'Where?"

"In the stomach."

"Good Lord." No wonder Bart was so thin again. His appetite was never the world' biggest to begin with, and then –

"Stitches?"

"Yep. Lots."

It didn't matter how many; stitches hurt under the best of circumstances. "They out?"

"Yep."

"Still havin' problems?"

Bart blew out a quick breath. "Can't you tell?"

Again, that quiet voice. "Every time you move. That's why the cane, isn't it?"

"No, I just like the look of it. Of course that's the reason. Most of the time I'm fine, but stairs don't help." He thought of the intimidating way he'd used it with Elliott Stander. And he smiled. "Sometimes it just comes in handy. Anything else you need to know?"

Bret shook his head no. "That'll do for now." He looked at his brother and ached for all the anguish and pain Bart had been through in the past year. He would give anything to make it all go away. But he smiled instead, lest Bart know how much he really cared. He wanted to know what was causing Bart such emotional torment but he wasn't going to dig any deeper. He had other problems right now, and there would be plenty of time to talk it all out later. He put his hand on his brother's arm and asked, "Anything I can do to help?"

"No. But I appreciate it." There was real gratitude in Bart's words and his eyes. He knew Bret was always there to comfort and protect him, no matter what. He'd proved that time and again. He hoped that he would be the same way if his big brother ever needed him. "Now let's get back to your problem."

XXXXXXXX

Now there were two of them. That put a different light on the situation. Was he supposed to take care of both of them? The job was only contracted for one. He was only paid for one. He wasn't in the habit of killing for free.

No, he was only going to do the job originally paid for. Any other complications could be dealt with later. He would concentrate on the initial target only. Maybe now it would be easier, and the mark would feel safer with a back-up to protect him. Feeling safe meant getting lax, and it would be simpler to accomplish his goal.

Now that he was here in Denver it was only a matter of time. If he'd kept travelling it would have added to the difficulty and might have prevented him from fulfilling the contract. You could only trail a man so long before you either caught him or he back-tracked and caught you. Now he could play cat and mouse in the shadows, letting confusion and fear aid him in his chosen profession. And when the job was completed he would go on his way, no one the wiser as to who or why someone had killed the man.

The next few days would require the most patience. He had to let his victim believe there was no more threat, that the trailing had ceased, that he was safe from harm. Watch his comings and goings and let patterns and routines develop. Until it was easy to find the right place and time; and then strike. And go on his way, looking for the next job, the next kill, the next payday.

XXXXXXXX

"Think we should be in the same room?" That was Bart talking, asking the next logical question.

"Sure would be cheaper, but let's stay where we are for now. Maybe whoever's following me doesn't know about you. Let's keep it that way. I want to be sure you're protected."

Bart started to protest but Bret interrupted. "Look, you've been through enough this past year. Let's keep you safe this time, shall we?"

Bart smiled gratefully. He had dealt with more than his fair share of trauma. Besides, when the Maverick stubbornness reared its ugly head there was no use arguing. So they climbed the stairs together, Bart using the cane more than he liked to, and parted at the top step. Bret went left, Bart went down the hall to the right. "Good night, Mr. Jamison."

"Good night, Mr. Joseph. Breakfast?"

"10 a.m. good for you?"

"Fine." Bart, as had become his habit in hotel rooms, drew his gun while opening the door. He scanned the room to make sure nothing looked out of place before entering. Bret watched his brother disappear into room 324 and then went into 316. At least he was safe until morning.


	3. Chapter 3 Lying In Wait

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 3 – Lying in Wait

Days passed. There seemed to be no discernable trace of whoever trailed Bret through Nevada and into Colorado. No one around any corners, no one in back alleys or in shadows, no one showing up at whatever saloon they chose to play poker in. No one there.

One of Bret's favorite tailors was now housed in Denver and he took Bart there to be fitted for some new coats. Shirts and vests were easy enough to come by; Denver seemed to have an over-abundance of clothing available. But coats; ah, coats had to be perfect. While you wouldn't consider the Mavericks 'dandies', they were all very particular about the cut of a coat. Maybe because they practically lived in them. Comfort was primary; you certainly couldn't afford to spend sixteen to eighteen or more hours in an ill-fitting garment. And there had to be more than one available at any one time, sometimes it was necessary to change clothes in a hurry. The brothers tended to gravitate toward the same style clothes, though Bret had an affinity for a multitude of colors. Bart's favored color still seemed to be black.

So the younger Maverick was content to replenish his 'gambling clothes' in a manner a little less dapper than his brother. Definitely so when it came to shirts – Bret had always preferred a fancier shirt than Bart. Give him ruffles as opposed to Bart's pin-tucked fitted front and he was a happy man.

Bart was still touchy when being fitted for the coats and Bret finally got a chance to see why. Three very long, very ugly reddish scars ran almost the whole length of his stomach, from right under the lungs to the very bottom of his belly. While the wounds had healed and closed, the new skin was still raw looking, like someone had sliced it open and then held it in place while it grew back together. Dr. Turner did the best he could, given the length and depth of the puncture wounds, but the marks left after the healing process was completed were angry looking at best. And every time Bart moved the lacerations were twisted and pulled, causing almost constant pain.

The revelation of the seriousness of the injuries hit Bret hard. He had no idea that his brother's life once again hung in the balance while he played poker and romanced the ladies in San Francisco. Maybe he shouldn't have pulled Bart away from the Garrett ranch so fast. If he'd only known how badly his brother was hurt . . . .

That was one of the things he didn't understand. Bart didn't complain or dwell on his problems, be they physical, mental or emotional. He held everything inside until it all got to be too much and then it exploded in a fiery spasm of rage and grief. If he had bothered to pay any attention to his own personality he might have recognized the same trait, to a slightly lesser degree.

There'd been too many close calls. The six month disappearance in Mexico after Caroline Crawford's death. The beating in Montana and the subsequent seizures. Now this knifing in Nevada. Trouble always seemed to be looking for Bart Maverick, and his brother had dragged him into this mess, whatever it was. He was still wondering and worrying about all the misery unintentionally suffered by Bart when he heard his name being called.

"Bret, are you with me? What do you think about this one?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry. Looks alright. But how about something besides black? You're too young to always look like you're goin' to a funeral. How about that one over there?" He pointed to a dark gray that was about the same cut as the coat Bart had on now. If he'd been looking out the window he might have seen a shadow briefly pass by, but he was thinking too much about his brother's latest brush with death.

Bart was momentarily distracted by the suggestion and took a closer look at the gray coat. He didn't see the person outside the window, either. Dressing well was such a waste of time, he thought, but both preferred to look like what they were, gamblers and card sharks, rather than cow hands. So this 'waste of time' was actually a necessity to help maintain the persona. Besides, they'd watched Pappy and Uncle Ben dress this way their whole lives and really weren't comfortable with much else. Indecisive at that exact moment, Bart bought and was fitted for both coats.

What passed for shopping completed, Bret dragged his brother to one of Denver's many fine eating establishments and insisted on lunch. Bart had actually managed to put on a few pounds due to Bret's constant need for food and wasn't too hard to persuade. Again the shadow watched them, at a discreet distance, and remained well out of sight. After the meal Bart begged off any more activity and opted instead for some much-needed rest. Bret had no intention of spending the afternoon sleeping and decided a visit to the 'Frontier Palace Saloon' might be a better use of his time. His cash could use some replenishing.

Soon he'd found a game to suit him and paid little or no attention to the comings and goings of the saloon's clientele. Thus he again missed two or three people who entered the saloon for one reason or another, the hired gun hidden surreptitiously among them.

It was getting close to the time for performing this job and he was almost ready. He was glad when it would be over; the completion of a task was nowhere near as interesting as the beginning. Now it was just a matter of the right set of circumstances.

XXXXXXXX

Bart awoke with a start. For a moment he was disoriented and thought he was still at the Garrett ranch. Then slowly it came to him that he was in Denver with Bret. Or rather he was in his hotel room alone.

He got up and went to the bowl of water that served as a wash basin and splashed some water on his face. He had the strangest feeling, like he was being watched by someone. And then it dawned on him. Bret. Where was Bret? Bart dried his face and put his gun and gun belt back on. For good measure he loaded the derringer and strapped on the shoulder holster. His cane rested on the corner of the bed and he picked it up and took it with him. There was a feeling in the air, almost like fireworks on the fourth of July. Something wasn't right, he was sure of it. Time to go find his brother.

XXXXXXXX

Bret was as happy as a pig in mud. Like Pappy always said, "The only thing better than not losing a lot of money is winning a lot of money." Winning he was, and having a very good time doing it. The coffee was good, the game friendly, the cigars fine. And best of all the girls were pretty. VERY pretty.

Bret was doing so well at poker that he could flirt and keep winning. With his attention split between women and cards he hadn't noticed when the stranger entered the bar and he wouldn't notice when the stranger left. But the stranger certainly noticed him.

Having a good time and distracted, the target had done just what he wanted – after several days of heightened vigilance and no trace of being followed, he'd gotten sloppy. He wasn't paying attention like he had been, and the man that was his constant companion was nowhere to be seen.

If everything stayed on track he should be able to complete the job in the next few days. Satisfied that he'd done a good days work, the stranger finished his whiskey and left the bar.


	4. Chapter 4 Just My Imagination

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 4 – Just My Imagination

Bart carried the cane with him in case he needed it. In fact he was just tucking it under his left arm when a man came out of the 'Frontier Palace Saloon' and walked right into him. The cane dropped and Bart lost his balance and fell. The stranger muttered something that sounded like "Sorry" and hurried down the sidewalk, oblivious to Bart's crash landing. He grabbed the cane off the ground and used it as a brace to help him get back up. He regained his feet just in time to see the man turn the corner at the end of the street and disappear.

He brushed himself off and checked the shoulder holster. Yep, the derringer was still there. He somehow felt safer knowing that he had it. Finally he went through the batwing doors into the saloon itself; there sat his brother looking like he didn't have a care in the world. From the size of the stack of chips in front of him, he didn't. Bart tapped the front of his hat and wandered over to the bar, where he ordered coffee and lit a cigar. In a few minutes Bret cashed in his chips for a large stack of bills and stood at the table. After excusing himself he walked over to meet his brother at the bar.

"You look like a man who just took away everybody's gamblin' money, Mr. Joseph." Bart took a draw on the cigar and laughed. Bret added a smile to his face and signaled the bartender for another coffee.

"I did." He pulled out a cigar and Bart lit it for him. "It does feel good to be back on the winning side. Anything exciting going on in your end of the world?"

"You mean besides being knocked down before I could get in here?" Bart asked facetiously.

Bret stopped his coffee cup in mid-air. "Knocked down?"

Bart stood staring into nothing for a moment, then finally, "Yeah. Somebody in an awful big hurry to get out of here and get away from me. Ran into me on his way out, knocked me down and never even stopped to say good night." He thought for a moment and then added, "My height. Older, kind of worn down looking. Little mustache. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Black vest, black pants. Hat worn Texas style. Sound familiar?"

"Sort of. There was a man matching that description in here earlier at the bar, drinkin' whiskey. Didn't pay much attention but did look over a couple times. He was quiet, never talked to anybody. Did you see which way he went?"

"Down the street and around the corner. Why? Do you think . . . . . ?"

Bret shook his head. "Because I've had that same feelin' of being watched all afternoon. Let's go see what we can find."

"Alright." Bart finished his coffee and left two coins on the bar. Bret drank most of his and set his cup down, too. Both men turned and headed for the doors. By the time they got outside it was almost dark and they set off down the sidewalk the way the man had gone. When they got to the corner they turned on the street and came to an immediate halt. It was a dead end alley.

"Are you sure this is the way?" Bret was aggravated by the disappearance.

"I swear." Bart raised his right hand. "I know this is the way he turned."

"Huh. Well, unless he knows how to climb walls, he's gone."

"What now?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's all my imagination. Maybe there's nobody watchin' me after all. Maybe I've lost my mind."

Bart shook his head, leaned on his cane and laughed. "That would imply you had a mind to begin with."

Bret took a step back, out into the street. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

Now both of them were laughing. From inside the building on the corner a set of eyes watched them as people walked down the street and turned to stare at the two grown men, one holding a cane, laughing like fools. Go ahead, the unidentified eyes seemed to say. Laugh now – I'll be the one who has the last laugh.

XXXXXXXX

Damn, Bret's tailor was good. Only three days later he had both coats ready for Bart, perfectly tailored to his liking. He was so pleased with the way they'd turned out that he bought a tan coat that he'd considered on his first visit and had that measured for himself. It had a chocolate brown collar to it and it reminded him of Rose's long chocolate hair. Of course that demanded the brown and gold vest that Bart eyed on his first visit but decided he didn't need. What good was money but to spend? And spend he did, deciding that tonight was going to be poker night.

The days were lazy and long and he found himself using the cane less and less. Much of the time he could move around without being in pain and decided, once again, it was time to get back on a horse. He went to the livery to see what they had for sale and found a roan with a white blaze that seemed to have enough spirit without having too much sass. Bart remembered all too well the skittish bay at Anderson's ranch and the painful lesson the horse taught him.

It was a beautiful day, early summer, and once the roan was saddled Bart decided now was as good a time as any to ride. He mounted and headed out of town, northwest towards Ralston Point. The country was stunning and it was a pleasant ride. It was good to be back on a horse; it had been too long. There was no unanticipated pain with the ride and he felt more like himself than he had for a while. A small summer shower popped up along the way; he took shelter under a tree. It didn't rain long enough or hard enough to get too wet. But he remembered another ride and the sudden storm and the most pleasurable aftermath. He still wasn't sure he'd done the right thing by walking away; he just knew it was the right thing for him. Besides, Bret needed him.

That though brought a realization. He'd been gone for hours, and even though neither of them had detected anyone following his brother for days, Bart still didn't believe they were out of the woods. The mystery tracker needed to be found, for no other reason than to determine why Bret was being pursued. He turned the roan back towards Denver and rode.

XXXXXXXX

He tried checking Bart's room but there was no answer. That was a good thing, he decided, it was hard to brood when you were busy. There was still something bothering Bart and after more than a week together Bret hadn't been able to find out what. Again, that secretive part of his brother's personality reared its head. There was nothing he could do until Bart decided to talk.

Failing to raise his brother prompted Bret to go to the dining room alone. Late breakfast, early lunch? How to decide? He looked up to see the prettiest girl in town waiting to take his order. "Well, hello."

"Yes, sir. What can I get for you, sir?" She was blonde and blue-eyed, and no wedding ring.

"Coffee and your company?" Bret smiled as he said it and turned his dimples loose on her.

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't get off until two o'clock. Perhaps you want to order something to tide you over until then?" She was definitely flirting back.

"Yes, ma'am, bacon and eggs. No toast." _'Vile stuff, toast,'_ he thought. _'And Bart practically lives on it?'_

"Thank you, sir, I'll be right back with your coffee. My name is Sara." She smiled at him, charmingly, and took his menu. She returned shortly with his coffee and by the time she brought the bacon and eggs they had a buggy ride scheduled for two o'clock. When he was through with breakfast he paid the bill and promised to be back for her at two.

Now there was something interesting on the agenda. He located the nearest livery and was surprised when he found that his brother had been there earlier today and bought a horse. Bret settled for paying the livery man for use of a buggy for the afternoon. At the appropriate time he called for Miss Sara at the hotel and was rewarded with a big smile, a lovely lass and a picnic basket.

The afternoon went by pleasantly enough, getting better acquainted with Sara Hanford. She had a lively mind and a delightful manner and proved to be the perfect companion for whiling away a summer day. By the time they returned to town it was almost six o'clock and time to take the young lady home. They made plans to see each other the next day and Bret returned the buggy to the livery and reserved it for the following afternoon. All in all, the best day spent in Denver in a while.

XXXXXXXX

"You in there?" Now it was Bart's turn to knock on the door looking for a Maverick. He was more successful than Bret, since his brother actually answered his knock. "Thought we were goin' to dinner and poker tonight. And what's that stupid grin on your face, anyway?"

Difficult to stop smiling when you have something to smile about. Bret opened the door wider and Bart entered the room. When he turned around and looked at his older brother he didn't have to ask any more questions. "I see. There's a lady in the picture?"

"Why Brother Bart, whatever are you talking about?" Once again Bret gave him the sly grin that indicated Bart was correct.

"You dog. I can't leave you alone for one day, can I?" Bret's reputation as a ladies man made it hard to deny Bart's accusation. So he didn't.

"I'm ready to go. Looks like you are too. Dining room or somewhere fancy?" Bret had no preference, as long as it was food.

"Dining room's fine. Poker still following?" You never knew with Bret once there was a lady that grabbed his attention. Bret nodded 'yes' and they went to dinner.

XXXXXXXX

Dinner was fine but poker was up and down. They tried not to play against each other whenever possible and tonight was no exception. They'd gone to the 'Lucky Lady Saloon and Gaming Room' and both found a table that looked inviting. Bret straddled a chair as usual at the beginning of the night and Bart tucked his coattails before sitting down. Both were armed and Bart carried the derringer, but had no use for the cane on this night.

The brothers Maverick played on for most of the night, winning two hands, then losing three. Finally the tide seemed to turn and Bart was once again on his hot streak. Bret wasn't quite as good tonight as most nights in the past; whether it was the cards or the players or his mind on Sara, he wasn't able to pull very far ahead. Sometimes it's just not your night, and this seemed to be one of those. Around four in the morning Bret had enough and simply decided to get up from the table and go smoke. Bart saw him walk out the front door, but he left his hat on the table so there was no danger of him not returning.

The night air was still cool even though summer had arrived and Bret leaned against the support post for the roof overhang and struck a match. His face was momentarily illuminated as he lit the cigar but there was a soft breeze blowing and he had to turn his back to the street to keep it lit. He stood that way for several minutes, drawing on the cigar to keep it going, and wondered just how far it would get with Sara.

Bart was in the middle of a hand when he heard the first shot. It came out of nowhere and sounded like it was right outside. There was a small "oof" sound and then shots two and three rang out, clear as day. Bret! Bart jumped to his feet and ran, not caring what he left on the table or who might have a problem with it. When he reached the swinging doors he could see his brother lying face down on the sidewalk, a large splotch of blood spreading rapidly across his back. "Somebody get the doctor!" he yelled as he reached Bret and gently turned him over. Damn! He could see where one of the bullets had exited in front and there was a dark red stain quickly growing bigger. Bret never had a chance. Somebody shot his brother in the back.


	5. Chapter 5 There Will Be Blood

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 5 – There Will Be Blood

Bart sat with his brother's head in his arms while he waited for the doctor to arrive. Everyone from inside the saloon poured out into the street but gave the men on the ground a wide berth. Bret's eyes flickered open, then shut, then open again and he smiled thinly and looked up at Bart.

"Brother Bart . . . . what . . . . are you . . . . .doing . . . . .here? Didn't know . . . . you . . . . .were in . . . . . town." Gasping between words and struggling to breathe, Bret was delusional. He didn't know where he was or what had happened; only that it was his brother directly in his line of sight.

"Shhh, Bret, don't talk. Doctor's on his way. We're in Denver, remember?" Bart's voice, barely an audible whisper, almost failed him. He could see the blood dripping ominously on the dirt underneath Bret's shoulders. He pulled his legs under him and held Bret's head and upper body in his lap. He pressed his hand against the chest wound; anything to slow down the blood loss. He could feel the life slipping away as he sat there. Bret's eyes flickered shut for too long and Bart pleaded with him: "Don't close your eyes." His brother stirred and babbled something about "not . . . . imagination . . . . " and Bart shifted on the ground to get a better hold. Once more he begged: "Bret, don't close your eyes"

Again the thin smile. Just then the doctor arrived and Bart pulled his hand away from the wound in front so the physician could see it. It was red and sticky with his brother's blood. He wiped it on his coat and helped the doctor turn Bret over slightly so he could determine where the first bullet entered in back, right below the shoulder blade. The second entry wound was closer to the middle; closer to his heart. That was the bullet that was trapped somewhere inside. The bullet that might kill him.

"I need some help here," the doctor called to the group on the street. "Joe, Cecil, Vincent, help me get this man to my office. And be careful, he's in bad shape. You a friend or relative?" he asked as he turned his head to Bart.

"Brother," came the swift reply. "How bad, Doctor?"

The doctor didn't mince words. "Don't make any long range plans." He got up from the ground and picked up his bag. "Come on boys, let's get this gentleman inside."

Slowly, carefully, the three men the doctor called on got Bret off the ground and down the street to the office, leaving a large pool of blood in front of the saloon. Bart continued kneeling on the ground for a moment, stunned by the turn of events, then awkwardly got to his feet and followed the blood trail to the doctor's office. By the time he got inside the doctor had Bret lying on his stomach on the exam room table and was cutting open his shirt, vest and coat. Bret was out cold and all Bart could hear in his brain was _'Don't close your eyes; don't close your eyes.'_

"Go on, son, get on out. There's nothing you can do here." That was Doctor Samuels to Bart as he stood helplessly inside the exam room. Bart didn't move. The doctor continued cutting clothing until he was finished and he could see what he was dealing with. Finally he looked up at Bart with a quizzical expression. "I'm sorry son, I don't know your name."

His voice was hollow and still; devoid of any emotion. He answered out of habit. "Bart." A moment later "Bart Maverick. That's my brother Bret."

"Sorry, no time for introductions. I'm Robert Samuels. Any idea how this happened?"

"Somebody's been tracking him for weeks. We . . . . I don't know who. He went outside for a smoke; wasn't gone five minutes. I heard the gunshots and ran." He started to say something else and had to quit; emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

"Alright, Bart Maverick, better go tell the marshal what happened so's he can start investigating. Nothing for you to do here right now. You'll just get in my way. Go on now, while everything's fresh in your mind." He looked at Bart ominously. "But don't be long."

What? What did that mean? "Don't be long? " The chaos in his brain started to clear and he got answers he didn't like. He knew just what it meant, "don't be long." The doctor didn't expect Bret to live. My God! Pappy! Beau! What would they do? What would he do? How could this happen?

There was only one answer, and he couldn't deny it. He had one and only one reason to be here in Denver – to protect Bret. And he'd failed. Failed miserably. Failed so spectacularly that his brother might die. Would die. Noooooooooo! He couldn't. Is this what it felt like? When he'd collapsed in the courtroom and Bret had to watch? But there was no way for that to be prevented. THIS WAS HIS FAULT.

Calm. Got to stay calm. Can't get anything done if you can't think straight. Listen to the doctor and go talk to the marshal. He forced himself to turn away from Doctor Samuels and his examination of the bullet wounds and walk out into the street. The sun was coming up and he could see the now dried blood trail from the Doctor's office down to the saloon. And the still damp blood pool on the sidewalk and in the street. Blood. His brother's blood.

He forced himself to follow the trail back to the saloon, which was still open but quiet as a church. He walked in and found Bret's hat, sitting on the table where he'd left it, and his own at the table across the room. No one had touched anything and all his chips were where he'd left them. They didn't interest him.

He walked to the bar and without a word the bartender poured a shot. For once he didn't hesitate, just drank the shot and allowed the bartender to pour him another. He felt nothing. The second one went down more slowly, burning its way into his body but soothing his nerves. He reached for his wallet but the bartender waved him off. He put his hat on and picked up Bret's from the bar and tuned to leave just in time to see the marshal come through the doors. He knew Jed Thompson slightly from previous visits to Denver and was relieved to see a semi-familiar face. Marshal Thompson indicated a table and Bart sat down.

"Heard about the shooting. Sorry. Your brother's a good man. Leastways neither of you ever causes me any grief when you're here." The lawman paused for a moment and then continued. "Got all kinds of 'eyewitness' accounts about it, came to see what you could tell me." Jed signaled the bartender, who brought two cups of coffee to the table. Bart was grateful for the hot black liquid. It gave him something to hold onto and forced him to steady his nerves so the marshal wouldn't see him shake. He took a sip and set the cup back down.

"I don't know how helpful I can be, Marshal Thompson. I got here a little more than a week ago when Bret sent me a telegram asking for my help. He said that someone had followed him all the way across Nevada and Colorado. Didn't know who it was and he was jumpy. We might have seen the man one night but he disappeared. There hasn't been any other sign of anything wrong. Bret went outside to smoke a cigar this morning and I was in the middle of a game. Next thing, I heard three shots and ran outside. I assume you know the rest."

"Three shots, Mr. Maverick? Are you sure?"

He gave some thought to the matter and counted gun shots in his head. "Yes. Three shots. Looked like two hit Bret in the back. I'd like to get back to my brother. Anything else I can tell you?"

The marshal shook his head. "Nope. You at the Palace like always?"

"Yes. Room 324. Bret's in . . . . . was in 316. You know where I'll be for now." Bart stood up to leave and shook hands with the marshal first. Jed Thompson was one of the few lawmen they'd had no trouble with. He was fair and honest and if you caused him no grief he returned the favor.

Bart picked Bret's hat up from the table and looked at it. Perfect. Not a speck of dirt, just coal black and perfect. Then he noticed the hand that held it, his hand. Bret's dried blood was everywhere; even caked under his fingernails. He had no inclination to wash it off. He left the saloon without cashing in his chips.

XXXXXXXX

Doctor Samuels put four stitches in Bret's back, below the right shoulder blade, and had pretty well stemmed the bleeding from the exit wound in front. He'd started trying to find the other bullet by the time Bart returned. He now knew better than to tell the younger Maverick sibling to stay out of the exam room and pointed to the chair sitting across from the table. Bart remained silent but accepted the doctor's direction to the chair and sat.

Doctor Samuels had used his bullet probe many times successfully, but this proved to not be one of them. Poke around as he might in the wound track he couldn't find what he was looking for. Failing to do so did not bode well for the man's survival. He set the probe down and wiped his forehead with a towel; he was soaked through with sweat. What had the young man said his brother's name was? Oh yes, Bret. Bret Maverick. The doctor knew that if Maverick was to have any chance at all of staying alive he had to find it. An unexpected moan came from the body on the table and Samuels was disturbed. Not the time for an unconscious man to be waking up. Not with the probing he still had to do.

Bart was torn. He knew what the doctor had to accomplish and it would certainly be easier on Bret if he remained unaware. At the same time he wanted his brother awake, conscious of what was happening and as close to normal as possible.

Bret made no further signs of stirring and Dr. Samuels went back to digging around for the bullet. He was extremely careful with his probing; he knew just how close he was to both the heart and lungs. An incorrect move in either direction could prove fatal.

Bart sat dead still and didn't make a sound. He could see the doctor's instrument and knew exactly what was being done; Samuels had to find the bullet. Anything less than that and Bart would be an only child. Neither of the boys was raised with much religion in their lives but Bart wasn't willing to take any chances with his brother_. 'It's my fault, God,'_ he thought_. 'I wasn't paying enough attention. Don't make him pay for my mistake.'_

Time passed. The doctor had to stop more than once to wipe the sweat from his brow; speed was not his friend in this search. But persistence was, and it finally paid off when the probe ran into something hard. The bullet. Now if he could just get it back up through the wound track . . . . . .

Slowly it followed the hooked tip of the probe as Dr. Samuels pulled gently, back up through the wound. He had to be very careful, as any little slip could cause it to dislodge, never to be seen again. Until it wound up someplace it wasn't supposed to be. Finally he was able to retrieve the object that tried to destroy a man's life. "I've got it," he announced to Bart as he pulled it from its point of entry.

Bart breathed. "Does that mean he'll be alright?" was his first question.

"I can't guarantee anything. But at least now he's got a chance. I'll stitch this closed and then I need you to help me turn him over – I need to close the exit wound in front."


	6. Chapter 6 Sara Smile

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 6 – Sara Smile

Dr. Samuels let him stay with Bret in the exam room, just as Doc Washburn had done when the roles were reversed in Montana. At least Bret had company while he waited for Bart to decide between life and death. Bart was all alone and wondered how long it would take him to lose his mind.

Dr. Samuels had a busy practice in Denver; fortunately he had another exam room and Bart could remain with Bret in the one they were in. He heard people coming and going in the office all day and the doctor checked in frequently to see how Bret was doing. "Holding his own," was the most repeated statement the Doctor made.

Around 3 p.m. there was a knock on the exam room door. When Bart called "Come in" a lovely little blue-eyed blonde named Sara opened the door a crack and asked "Mr. Maverick?"

"Yes," Bart answered automatically. She opened the door wider and came in. "I'm Sara Hanford. Bret and I were supposed to go out for a ride this afternoon. I just found out what happened and came right over. How is he?"

Bart looked at the young woman and rapidly determined that she was 'the lady in the picture' that Bret played coy about last night. She fit the mold of Bret's taste – bright, young and pretty. And blonde always helped. She was kind enough to check on a man she'd just met; she deserved an answer. "He's hanging on."

"He was shot in the back?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who did it?"

"No."

"He told me a little yesterday about somebody following him. He didn't seem real concerned about it."

Bart shook his head. "That's Bret. You never know what he's really thinking. He still surprises me."

She gave him an odd look before telling him, "He was really worried about you."

"Me? He was worried about me? Somebody tried to kill him and I let them and he was worried about me?" Bart was unhappy to realize that he was on Bret's mind when the concern should have been for his own safety. No wonder he was careless last night. Instead of thinking of himself his mind was elsewhere. Things had to change. If Bret got through this he had to make sure that he paid attention to himself first and everyone else second. And not the other way around.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Bart gathered that Sara asked him another question and he hadn't heard her.

"He speculated why someone would be after him. Do you know any reason?"

He looked down at the floor and shook his head. "That's the question I keep asking myself. And I don't have an answer." His mind was starting to play tricks on him again. He'd almost swear he saw his brother's eyes flutter for just a moment and he looked at the girl. "Did you see that?"

"See what?"

"I thought . . . . never mind. Can I impose on you to do something for me?"

She smiled at him. "Certainly."

"Can you go to the Marshal's office and ask him to come by when he has a chance? There's something I forgot to tell him."

"I can do that. Do you want anything? Wait, I mean, do you need anything? Food, coffee, anything else?"

She was thoughtful, he'd give her that. "I could use some coffee, thanks."

Sara smiled again. "I'll bring a pot from the dining room. Doctor Samuels keeps a contraption he calls a 'burner' in the other room, keeps a coffee pot hot. Anything else?"

"No, that's enough, thanks."

She didn't quite believe him. Bret had given her an earful about his brother and she knew more than she was willing to let on. "When was the last time you had something to eat?"

His answer was quick. "Don't know. Don't care. Coffee will do just fine."

She heard the tone in his voice and wasn't going to argue. "Okay then. Marshal Thompson and coffee. I'll be back."

"Thank you. Really, thank you." Sara closed the door behind her.

There it was again. He wasn't imagining it. Brett's eyelids had fluttered for just a moment and it happened while Bart was watching him. He was still in there, somewhere, the way Bart was aware of what was happening while he fought his own internal battle. "I met your girl, Bret. She's pretty. Seems bright, too. How much did you tell her? She knew an awful lot about you and me. Did you ever hear of the word 'slow?' Remind me to teach it to you sometime." There was no reaction, not even a small flinch.

He pulled the chair closer to the table his brother lay unconscious on. He crossed his arms on the table and leaned his head on those arms. "Hey, this is getting to be too much of a habit, okay? We've got to quit hanging out in doctor's exam rooms. At least Beau isn't here this time. Just you and me, Brother Bret, and I'm gettin' tired of talkin' to myself and not gettin' any answers. Why don't you come on back here and we can play a little poker. I believe it's your turn to cheat . . . . I mean deal."

There was a knock on the door and it opened. It was Marshal Thompson. "How's your brother, Maverick?"

"Still here. Thanks for comin' by, Jed. Don't suppose you found out anything today?"

"Matter of fact, I did. There's a fella been seen around the corner building by that alley cut off. Tall man, a little older and shopworn, if you know what I mean. Dark hair, mean eyes. Mustache, wears a lot of black. Sound familiar at all?"

"Yep, that's him. That's who I was gonna tell you about. I forgot this morning. Sorry."

"Understandable. You had a lot on your mind. A couple of folks noticed him hanging around and got suspicious. Nobody seems to know who he is. Somebody told me they saw him leave town this morning. Riding a gray. I suspect it may be your man."

"They tell you which way he went?"

The Marshal shook his head. "Headed east. Towards Kansas. Why anyone would go there is beyond me, but who knows? Lots of different reasons, I guess. Anyway, that's all I could find out. Sorry there isn't more."

Bart stood to stretch his legs and saw Sara through the open door with a coffee pot. She headed for another room. He turned back to the marshal. "Thanks, Jed. At least I know where to start."

"You're not fixin' on goin' after him yourself, are you?"

Bart looked down at his brother, who appeared to be sleeping so peacefully. "Not just yet. I'll let you know if I do. Everything depends on what happens here." _'Everything,'_ he thought. He looked back up at the lawman. "He's the only brother I'm ever gonna have."

Jed Thompson could understand Bart's pain. "Think about it before you do somethin' to get yourself killed. This is a gunslinger, not your average on-the-street cowpoke. He knows what he's doin'. You may be decent with that gun; you may even be good with it; but is it worth the risk?" The marshal nodded at Bret. "Would he do it for you?"

Bart looked at the lawman with something between pride and regret. "He already has."

No argument left to make, the marshal knew when he was beaten. "Your brother, your life," was his parting comment.

"See, Bret, nobody understands. Like I could forget how many times you've pulled my hide out of the fire. And I'm sorry that I let you down. It won't happen again." He was making promises that he hoped his brother could hear. "But you've gotta get through this. There's a pretty little girl in the other room waitin' for another buggy ride. Bret Maverick can't disappoint a lady. Besides, she's sweet on you. I can tell. Being so experienced and all." He laughed, knowing that Bret would get the private joke.

He touched his brother's shoulder as he walked over to the doorway that led to the next office. Sara was still there, talking to Dr. Samuels, and she grabbed a coffee cup and poured one when she saw him walk in. He gave her a wan smile and took the coffee gratefully. Two shots of whiskey this morning on an empty stomach and nothing since then had done him no favors.

"Any change?" Sara asked.

"Nope." That was about all the conversation he had left in him.

"Probably won't be any for a while," the doctor volunteered. "Unless he develops an infection. Got to keep an eye on that. I'd rather not move him until we know which way it's going to go." Dr. Samuels was as blunt as ever. He looked right at Bart. "You staying here with your brother?"

"Yes." No hesitation, no debate. He wasn't moving.

"Better go get what you need for the night, then. I'm lockin' up soon. I'll be by later to check on things."

"I don't need anything. Not until he decides that he' stayin.'"

"Mr. Maverick, he could be like that for days," Sara offered.

"Bart. I don't care if it's weeks. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Bret had offered that he was a stubborn man; Sara naturally assumed it was a trait shared by the brothers. Now she was sure of it. "What can I bring for you?"

The girl was being awfully nice, for someone he'd just met. "How about a blanket or two? And some cigars? In my coat pocket, on the bed."

She had another suggestion. "A change of clothes?"

It hadn't occurred to him. His brother's blood was all over these and they were stiff and caked with it. "There's a war bag on the chair. It's got a set of clothes in it. Bring that too. Room 324 at the Palace."

"Yes sir. I can manage that. I'll be back as soon as I can." He hadn't meant it to be an order but that was the way it came out. He caught her by the arm as she waked past.

"I'm sorry . . . . . Sara." It was the first time he'd used her name. "Thank you for helping."

"I know what it's like to be alone. Sometimes you can't do everything." She smiled at him again and left.

"Am I missing something here?"

Doctor Samuels looked at Bart, surprised. "That's right, you don't know Sara. She had a mother and father get killed right after they moved here. Her brother caught the fever and died last spring. So she knows what it's like to suddenly be alone and lost. She's a good girl."

"And I appreciate the help. But I just met the girl. So I hope you're right, since she's got the key to my room."

The good doctor chuckled. "You're safe."

XXXXXXXX

True to her word, Sara returned with several blankets, a pillow and Bart's 'war bag.' And sandwiches that he hadn't asked for but was willing to take. She sat with Bret for a few minutes while Bart used one of the other rooms to change clothes. He felt better when he buttoned his shirt and slipped into the buckskin jacket; the ever present smell of blood left with the discarded coat. He used the doctor's wash basin to wipe dirt and blood from his face, where it had been since early morning. Between the clothes and the coffee he was ready to resume his 'post' as Bret's guardian.

He walked back into the exam room. Everything was still and quiet, Sara sitting patiently in the chair nearest his brother. Bart sat down opposite her, checking Bret's face for any sign of change and finding none. He reached for one of the sandwiches she'd brought with her and realized how very hungry he was. "Thanks for the food."

"You're welcome. I thought it might come in handy, even though you said no earlier. When was the last time you ate?"

"Ah . . . . . . dinner last night?"

"Dinner? That was almost twenty four hours ago. No wonder you're so thin!" She wondered if she'd overstepped with that last remark.

Instead of the reaction she expected, he laughed. "Bret really did a lot of talking yesterday, didn't he?"

No, no, no, no, no . . . . she'd given him the wrong impression. "We were just comparing brothers. His sounded a lot more interesting. He really didn't say all that much."

Yeah – Bret could outtalk anyone he'd ever met. With the possible exception of Samantha Crawford. Thoughts of Samantha led him to the inevitable thoughts of Caroline. Which led him back to thoughts of Rose. Which led him right back to Denver and thoughts of failure. Whew! That was a quick circle.

Sara could see the changing feelings in Bart's eyes. There was plenty of pain there – along with a good measure of guilt, frustration, grief and more guilt.

An unexpected movement and a low moan from Bret disrupted any and all thoughts. Bart was alert in a moment and moved his chair right next to his brother. "Bret? Bret, its Bart. Are you there? Can you hear me?"

Another low moan followed and Bret moved like he was about to turn over, then thought better of it. Bart was momentarily encouraged, then disappointed when there was no further noise or movement. Sara decided it was time to leave and let the Mavericks have their privacy, much as they could in Doc Samuels exam room. She moved her chair away from the table and stood to go. Bart quickly caught her hand and then let go like it was on fire. "Stay. Please."

"Are you sure?" She wondered if he wanted her to stay or if anyone would do.

"Please." Now his eyes were pleading, desperate to not be left alone.

Sara sat back down but left her chair further away from his brother, where she had scooted it when she stood up. "Alright."


	7. Chapter 7 Goin' to Kansas City

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 7 – Goin' to Kansas City

Sometime around ten p.m. Sara pleaded work and left the next time Dr. Samuels came to check on Bret. As usual there was no change but Samuels was disturbed by something and he wouldn't discuss it with Bart. Bret had actually rolled on to his back and the doctor verified there was no bleeding from the wounds or stitches. Then everyone was gone and once again it was just Bret and Bart, the Maverick brothers.

Bart tried sleeping on the floor, in a chair and every other conceivable way he could think of. Nothing worked. He kept remembering all of the messes they'd gotten into as kids and all the scrapes Bret had gotten him out of as an adult. He'd done his fair share of helping out when there was trouble, but somehow Bret always seemed to have the broader shoulders for carrying the load. Maybe it was just the big brother instinct that seemed to take over when they were together and in trouble. No matter when or how or what the mess they got into, Bret's predisposition was one of protection for Bart. That was one of the reasons they spent as much time as they did separated from each other – Bart could only take so much mothering and then he had to leave.

There was no leaving now. Someone shot his brother in the back and he would find out who and why. Problem was he wanted to jump on the roan and chase the assailant across the state to wherever he was going in Kansas and he couldn't. He wouldn't leave Bret until he was out of the woods, and from where Bart stood he could barely see the edge of the forest.

Around two in the morning he finally pushed two chairs together and made a poor man's bed. Many a night spent on the cold hard ground that would have been a total luxury; it was the only way he finally got to sleep. And a restless and troubled sleep at that; just like all the nights spent in jail, he kept dreaming about dying. Only this time it was Bret doing the dying. He woke up two or three times certain that Bret died in his arms rather than being carried off to Dr. Samuel's office; after the third time he decided that attempting sleep was futile.

He usually had a book of some kind with him to read; he finished what seemed like hundreds in Montana. This trip he'd brought nothing of any consequence with him and, after his bout with the law books in Montana, was NOT inclined to start reading medical journals. He paced. He read labels on bottles. He checked on Bret every five minutes. He played Maverick Solitaire for hours. He smoked cigars. Finally as the sun was coming up he sat down next to the exam table his brother was lying on, rested his arms on the corner of the table, put his head down, and fell asleep.

XXXXXXXX

When Robert Samuels unlocked the door to his office at eight a.m., Bart Maverick was dead to the world. After an entire night spent fighting himself, he finally gave up the battle. That's the way Dr. Samuels found the Maverick brothers; one still unconscious from the attempt on his life, the other sound asleep with his head next to his brother's.

Bart was awake as soon as he heard the exam room door open. It took him a moment to realize where he was and then he looked up to see Dr. Samuels quietly checking his brother. Bret hadn't moved much during the night, but his breathing seemed easier than before. An unhappy scowl crossed the doctor's face and Bart was immediately attentive.

"What's wrong?" he asked before the doctor had finished.

"Huh? Oh, nothing." The scowl was still in place.

Bart wasn't buying it. "That's what you said last night and you looked just as disturbed. Now what's wrong?"

How much of an answer to give? That was the moral dilemma. Especially if what he suspected was actually taking place. "His temperature seems elevated. I'm concerned about an infection."

No wonder the scowl of displeasure. Bart knew that if digging around inside to find the bullet hadn't killed Bret, an infection probably would. "What can you do?"

"Not much. I'll watch him today and we'll see what happens."

Not very encouraging_. 'Come on, Bret, wake up. It's my fault you're hurt; I didn't protect you. Bret, answer me.' _The constant litany kept going through his mind. Eventually he said it to his brother out loud."Come on, Bret, wake up. It's my fault you're hurt; I didn't protect you. Bret, answer me." He repeated the same words over and over again until he couldn't say it anymore. Finally he grew silent

And in the stillness of the room a small moan. Followed by a bigger one, ending with a sound he'd not heard before; almost a strangled breath and then a terrible cough, lastly another moan. It was the best noise he'd heard all night.

"Bret? Can you hear me? It's Bart. Please hear me. Bret?"

More of an "oohh" sound this time. Then another moan. Then a welcome croak, faint but distinct. "Bart?"

Once again the eyes fluttered. This time they slowly opened into little thin whispers that could barely be seen. Another murmured "Bart." This time a statement and not a question.

"Bret, I'm here. I've been here. I'm with you. It's safe to come back, Bret. Come on back to me."

A final murmur. "Ow. Shot?" The eyes remained in that thinly opened state, not focused but there. He coughed again, louder this time, and it shook his entire body with the sound. Dr. Samuels came running in. "Was that your brother?"

"It was." Bart was up off the chair and out of the doctor's way as fast as he could move. Samuels stepped in and began a cursory examination. When he was finished and looked up he was smiling. "His lungs sound clear. That's a good sign. Better than I expected." He turned to face Bart. The same bluntness was still in evidence. "Maybe I was wrong. Let's hope so."

After the doctor returned to the other room Bart sat back down by Bret's side. "Hey, Brother Bret, welcome back. I was starting to get worried about you."

The speech was slow and labored. "Worrying . . . . . . my job. You . . . . . . get . . . . . hurt."

Bart couldn't stifle a chuckle. "Not this time, big brother. This time the bullets were all yours." He quickly turned serious. "I'm sorry. I should have been outside with you. This is my fault."

A low moan, followed by a cough, followed by a louder moan. "No. Wanted . . . . . .me. Not . . . . . you." Then, finally, "Hurts."

"I bet it does. He got you twice." Thank God the third bullet had gone astray somewhere. "Your girl was here."

"Sara?"

"Yep. Came by yesterday. Stayed most of the evening. Nice girl."

Bret endeavored to roll onto his back and quickly found it too painful. His eyes opened just a bit more and he tried to focus on Bart. "Hands . . . . . . off."

His brother was definitely in there. "Don't worry. She's a nice girl. She doesn't know you well enough to two-time you. Yet." Another chuckle, and then "I've got my hands full, anyway."

"Oh?" It was the first hint of what was bothering Bart.

"Stop now. It's time to rest. You've done enough for one morning."

"Yes." The eyes closed and the breathing became very subtle. Sleep came quickly after the effort of waking and talking. Finally, something besides absolute stillness. Bart got out of the chair and went to find the doctor, who was in his office writing.

"Doc, how about some coffee?"

"That would be nice, Mr. Maverick." He looked up from his writing. "It is a good sign. I'm just being . . . cautious."

As if on cue, Sara Hanford came through the front door with a fresh pot of the stuff Bart practically lived on. "Good morning all. Good news, I hope?"

"Angel," muttered Bart. Out loud he answered, "Good news. He woke up for a few minutes. He asked about you." That was a bit of a stretch, but it was the thought that counted.

"He did?" Sara had brought clean cups with her and she poured one for the doctor and Bart. "He wasn't delusional?"

Laughter from the Maverick in the room. Smart girl. "No, but he did warn me away from you."

Even Dr. Samuels laughed at that one.

"I can stay for a while if there's something you need to do." Once again, she was trying to be helpful. What was it with this girl?

"Thanks." He reached up and felt the stubble on his chin, trying to make an appearance. "I could stand a shave. And . . . . " He stopped at that. She could use her imagination for the rest. She smiled at him.

"Go ahead. I'll be here when you get back."

Bart tipped his cap and went back to Bret. "I'm gonna be gone for a few minutes. You keep sleepin', you hear? I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere while I'm gone." He left quickly, hoping that Bret would do just that. Keep on sleeping.

XXXXXXXX

Bart was back within the hour. He'd shaved, cleaned up as best he could, and changed clothes. Oh, and left the derringer holster off this time. He had a feeling he wouldn't be needing it for the time being.

On his way back to Dr. Samuels' office he stopped in briefly to see Jed Thompson. The marshal looked up, surprised to see him, when he walked through the door. "Does this mean . . . . . ?"

"Nope," Bart answered, finally able to smile about something positive. "He woke up. Just wanted to let you know. Heard any more about our mysterious stranger?"

"Just a tiny bit. Mamie over at the saloon saw a telegram he had, left sittin' on the bar for a few minutes. Said it was addressed to Jason Miller. Know who that is?"

Bart was at a loss. "No. No idea."

"You ever hear of Deacon Miller?"

Bart thought for a minute. "Maybe. Hired gun, used to be a lawman?"

Thompson nodded. "That's the one. Seems killin' is the family business. Jason is his brother. Doin' the same line of work – the hired gun part. That might be who you're lookin' for."

Bart let out a low whistle. "Sure didn't come cheap, did he?"

"Nope," the lawman answered. "Not if it was Miller. Somebody paid a pretty penny to have Bret Maverick killed."

"That's the name I need." Bart was angry and frustrated, but also curious. Who would pay what Miller cost to have his brother murdered? Nobody had ever been that determined to eliminate a lowly gambler. Certainly no one that Bret or Bart knew. If they were, they just yelled "Cheat!" in the middle of a poker game and shot 'em. Just what kind of trouble had Bret gotten into in San Francisco?

"By the way, Miller's got a spot he hides out in Kansas City. Down by the stockyards. Nobody's quite sure where, but I imagine folks thereabouts would know." If Maverick was going after Jason Miller he was going to need all the information Jed Thompson could provide.

"Thanks, Jed. I'll be around later, once Bret's a little better. Don't save a cell for me." Bart laughed at himself for the joke he'd made.

"Yeah, I heard about that mess up in Montana. Guess you've had your fill of jails for a while, huh?"

"More than my fill. I swear I'll never get thrown in one again." At least he hoped not. It all depended on the next few weeks. Bart left the marshals office and was once again happy to be 'out of' a jail. He hurried back to the doctor's office.


	8. Chapter 8 The Arrangement

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 8 – The Arrangement

"You look better." That was Sara's statement to Bart when he returned. "I meant, you look like you feel better."

"I do," he retorted. "Anything happen?"

She shook her head no. "He's still asleep. Dr. Samuels says he'll probably sleep the rest of the day. Are you going to stay here?" Why was she so interested?

"Yep. Won't go anywhere until I'm sure Bret's gonna be alright. I can't ride off and leave him here alone and not protected. He'd never do that to me." He paused and considered his next remark. "I let him down enough already. I can't do it again."

"You didn't let him down. You were trying to find out who was out to get him. How is that letting him down?"

She wouldn't understand if he took all day to try and explain it. But he tried anyway. "He trusted me to have his back. I let him leave that saloon and never even got up to go outside with him. How is that helping? If I'd been with him the gunman might not have taken the shot."

"Or he could have shot you. Did you ever think of that?" _'Why are some men so ready to take the blame for something that isn't their fault?'_ she wondered. He'd done everything he could; why couldn't he accept that?

She didn't get it. Maybe she never would. Why was she still here, anyway? Didn't she have a job to get back to? Or was there another reason she was sticking around?

"I'm going in. Thanks for the coffee and the time." He tipped his hat and started to walk past her. Sara grabbed his arm and stopped him.

"If you need anything – well, I'm at the Palace dining room until two p.m. Send for me."

He gently removed her hand from his arm. "Yes, ma'am."

XXXXXXXX

Dr. Samuels' anticipation of Bret sleeping all day proved fairly accurate. He stirred once or twice, even acting like he was going to wake up again, but it didn't happen. He seemed to have dodged an infection; so far his temperature held steady and the doctor was hoping for no change. Sara didn't come back after two p.m. and when Dr. Samuels left for the day later in the afternoon it was still Bart by himself with his brother. Bart was just as happy about that as he had been desperate the night before to not be alone. There was something about the girl that threw him off balance; he couldn't believe she'd fallen that hard that fast for his brother's dimples.

The night was quiet; Bret rested easy and Bart was actually so tired that he slept on the floor with the aid of two blankets and a pillow. When he wasn't sleeping he was thinking about the pursuit of Jason Miller. He had to head towards Kansas City quickly, before Miller could take another 'job' and Bart was forced to chase him all over the country. He was the only link to whoever paid to have Bret killed. If his brother was going to be safe they had to know who was behind the contract. And getting that information out of a professional killer wouldn't be an easy task.

XXXXXXXX

Bart was awake and waiting for the doctor when he arrived to open the office. What Dr. Samuels had to say about Bret's condition would help to determine what Bart's next move was.

After a preliminary exam it appeared that the doctor's apprehension about an infection was nothing more than a cautionary concern. Though it promised to be slow and painful, Bret's recovery seemed more and more likely. Which gave Bart the opportunity to ask the doctor a question that had been on his mind since yesterday.

"Sara Hanford. I would like to ask you something about her."

"Not a professional question, I hope."

"No, sir. A personal one. I assume she works to support herself."

"Yes, she does. Her parents left her and her brother little else besides their house. Why is that important?"

Bart thought it necessary to get the doctor's blessing. "I have to leave town in a day or two. Bret is going to take a while to recover and he needs someone to look after him. I thought maybe I could hire Sara to do the job. If you think that would be acceptable."

"I think it's a fine idea, Mr. Maverick. The young lady is certainly dependable and she's assisted me on several occasions. Plus it would give me an opportunity to keep a close watch on your brother's condition. And she could certainly use any financial assistance you could provide. I would think the situation would be beneficial to both parties."

Bart was relieved, to say the least. Now all he had to do was get Sara to agree. That way he could begin his pursuit of the would-be assassin and discover the man behind the heinous plot.

He was hoping that she'd come by the office again but when she failed to do so he went to the Palace dining room. The smell of food drove him crazy and he couldn't recall the last time he ate. When Sara brought sandwiches to Dr. Samuels' office, if he remembered correctly. The night before last. No wonder everything smelled so good.

He seated himself and saw her coming his way with a coffee pot. Yep, she had him figured out already. She poured coffee but said nothing. He wondered what he'd done since it appeared she was upset with him. Maybe that's why she hadn't come by to visit last night.

"Sara?"

"Yes sir?"

"Whatever it is, I'm sorry."

"It isn't you."

She started to walk away and he caught her arm. "Really, I'm sorry."

"It still isn't you."

He looked at her plaintively, pain again in his eyes. Had he hurt her in some way? "Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing I can discuss right now."

"Will you come to the Doc's office when you're off at two?"

A very quiet answer. "Yes."

"Alright. There's something I want to ask you."

She took out her pad and pencil. "Just coffee today?"

"Nope. I'm starved. Bacon and eggs and toast. Plenty of toast. Please."

"Huh. That's funny. Bret doesn't like toast."

"I know. He's more a meat and potatoes man."

She smiled briefly and wrote his order. "I'll be back soon."

In just a few minutes she brought his food and a coffee refill. "Smells delicious," he told her. He might not have an appetite like a Maverick but he ate like one. Food was something to be attacked, consumed and disposed of. Without wasting time. He finished and paid his bill. Tipped his hat to Sara and left.

XXXXXXXX

Bret was actually awake for part of the morning and Bart talked to his brother about his plans. Bret lay there and listened, for the most part moaning in pain and making small remarks. Except when Bart laid out his plans for Jason Miller and his employer. Then Bret became agitated and tried to express his opposition.

"Don't care what you have to say about it, big brother, you're not in a position to argue with me. You're not safe until we know who and why. And I intend to find out. So don't raise a fuss. It won't do any good." Bart was determined to have the last word in this lopsided argument.

"No. No. No. Can't go." A silver-tongued devil Bret wasn't, at the moment. "No revenge."

"Whatever gave you the idea I wanted revenge, Brother Bret? Just because I intend to kill the man that tried to kill you? Or the man that paid him to do the job?" He asked playfully.

"No." That seemed to be Bret's favorite word at the moment. And it was easy to say.

Bart got very serious and very quiet. "Yes. I will have justice for my brother. And if that's the only way I can get it, so be it. This isn't a joke to me. And it isn't something you can talk me out of. So stop trying. My mind's made up and nothing you can say will change it."

Bret's voice was almost a whisper. There was pleading and desperation in it. "Please. Don't. Go."

Bart shook his head. Bret begging was something he wasn't used to. "Won't work. Give it up."

There was an audible sigh, followed by a coughing spell and a protracted groan. "Bart. Stay."

"NO, that won't work either. I'm not an old hound dog. I don't obey commands."

Another coughing spell. "Can't lose you."

"Oh ye of little faith."

"Not," cough, cough "funny."

"I didn't mean it to be funny."

"Going anyway?" This was followed by another low moan.

"Yes, Brother Bret, I am going anyway. I'm not spendin' the rest of my days watchin' somebody try to kill you. Alright?"

"No."

"Get over it. I'm going to offer Miss Sara the chance to look after you while I'm gone."

That elicited a smile. "Ok."

"It's a revelation! He knows a word besides 'no!'" Timing couldn't have been more perfect, as just then Sara Hanford opened the door to Dr Samuels' office.

"Ah, the lady in question has arrived."

"Bart. Is he awake?"

"He is indeed. And feisty as all get-out. Come say hello to my big brother."

Sara came back into the exam room and around the table. "Hello, Bret. Nice to have you back among us."

Another smile. This one as close to the full dimple effect as possible. "After . . . . . after . . . . . . after . . . ."

"I believe what my brother is trying to say is 'afternoon.'"

"Yes."

"Good afternoon to you, too." Sara turned her attention to Bart. "You wanted me to come by?"

"I wanted to ask what you were so upset about this morning."

She looked down at the floor, embarrassed. "Oh, that. I just got some bad news from the manager."

"Which was?"

"The owner has a niece that wants a job. So he's giving her mine."

"You won't have a job at all? How soon?" This might work out better than Bart could have planned.

"Next week."

"Great. Works perfectly."

"What works perfectly? I think it's awful."

"I have something to take care of and I need to leave town for a while. Bret has to have a place to go and someone to look after him. Want the job?" Bart was hoping that she would say yes, given the current circumstances.

"You're going after the man that shot him, aren't you?"

No sense denying the obvious. "Yes."

"What happens if you get killed?"

"I won't. I'll pay you three months in advance. Deal?"

Sara rushed into his arms and hugged him tightly, then backed off just as rapidly. "It's a deal."


	9. Chapter 9 Careful the Hard Way

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 9 – Careful the Hard Way

Three days went by before Sara was available for 'Bret' duty. By that time Doc was willing to let him be moved to Sara's spare bedroom, with the help of two of the men that had carried him before, and his brother. It was a pleasant little house, just a few feet south and the next street over from Dr. Samuels' office.

By that time Bret was back to almost normal speech and was coughing very little. It still hurt too much to lie on his back but even the pain level had begun to slack off just a bit. His level of emotional discomfort hadn't, however.

Once he was situated at Sara's Bret started trying to wear Bart's resolve down to a nub. He wouldn't let it go and insisted that Bart had to stay in Denver rather than leave for Kansas City. Bart didn't budge an inch, and when Monday morning came round his bags were packed and he and he had a train ticket. As promised, he went to see Jed Thompson before taking his leave of the city.

"So you're ready to head out?" Jed asked Bart while they drank, what else, coffee.

"Yep, got to get on this man's trail. Not getting any closer to him by sittin' here."

Marshal Thompson nodded his head, then asked the inevitable question. "Sure you want to do this?"

Bart's eyes grew cold and hard for a moment. "I'm sure."

"What if you don't come back?"

"Then my brother grows old and dies an only child."

Jed considered the statement and decided it was sound. He stood up to shake hands with Bart. He had rounds to make and this wasn't getting it done. "Good luck." Thompson was sincere. If every gambler that came through Denver was like the Maverick brothers his job would be a lot easier.

"Yep. Thanks. Watch out for my brother, would you?"

"I'll keep an eye on him."

Bart went back to Sara's house one last time. He'd moved Bret out of the Palace Hotel and into her house before checking himself out of room 324. He wanted to make sure that she had enough money and knew how to reach him. And he had to face Bret once more before he left for Kansas City.

"Will you be careful?" That, of course, was uppermost in Sara's mind.

"No, I fully intend on getting killed doing this absolutely stupid thing I'm going to do. Of course I'll be careful. Has Bret rubbed off on you, too? He can be a real pain, you know." Bart laughingly answered her. "Here, I want you to take this." He unpinned the thousand dollar bill from inside his coat where he always kept it and handed it to her. "If something happens to me this should keep the two of you going until Bret can play poker again. If not, I'll be back for it."

Sara tried to give it back to him. "I don't need this," she told him.

"Yes you do. Have you ever seen my brother eat? What he eats for breakfast alone is more than I eat in an entire day." Bart laughingly told her.

"He doesn't want you to go." Bret wasn't the only one that didn't want him to go.

"I know. But I have to."

"Why?"

He looked at her as if she was crazy. "Because somebody tried to kill my brother. I need to know who and I need to know why. Same reasons as before. Nothing's changed."

"I don't want you to go." That was a new and unexpected wrinkle.

"What? Why?"

"Because I don't want to lose you."

He was confused by that. "But you don't have me."

"I know that."

"You're Bret's girl."

"I'm my own girl."

Bart was blindsided and confused. "I thought you liked my brother."

"I do," Sara answered. "I like you, too. You're my friend. Maybe more. I'll never find out if you don't come back."

"Sara – "

"I know. You have to go."

"Yes."

She sighed. Why was this all so confusing? "Are you going to tell him good-bye?"

"Of course."

"Alright. I'm going to Dr. Samuels' office. I'll be back before you leave."

"Good." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Take good care of him."

"I will." Sara left for the Doctor's office. Bart prepared himself for dealing with his brother.

Bret was sitting up in bad, trying to read. There wasn't much else for him to do. He looked up when he saw Bart in the doorway. "Leaving?"

"Mmhmm. Soon as Sara gets back from Dr. Samuels'. You know where to find me in Kansas City."

"Yes." He looked back down at the book in his hands. "You still here?" Bart nodded his head, forcing Bret to look up again. "You don't have to leave."

"No, I don't."

"But you're going to, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"Why, Bart? Why do you have to go chase somebody we don't even know and maybe get yourself killed?"

"Because you would. Because you did. Because you're my brother. And I love you."

Bret stopped reading and paid attention. Bart hadn't told him that since the day momma died. Why now? Did he think he wouldn't be back? "Bart?"

"Yes, Brother Bret?" Using their old term of affection told Bret that the seriousness was over.

"Be careful."

"You're the second person to tell me that today. I'm always careful." Bart chuckled as he said it. He was thinking of a hotel room in Montana.

"Sure you are." Bret used Bart's own favorite word against him.

"I've learned to be careful. The hard way."

Bret set his reading down. "Bart. What you said before. Me too."

"I know, Bret. I know."


	10. Chapter 10 Mavericks is Cattle

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 10 – Mavericks is Cattle

The train ride across Colorado wasn't bad, but riding across Kansas was like riding across a wheat field – flat and brown. Bart's mind was fixed on one thing and one thing only, and its name wasn't poker. He knew several people in Kansas City, one of whom, Chester Clinton, lived a block from the stockyards. How he lived there with the odor Bart couldn't begin to understand. He'd sent Chester a telegram and told him where he would be staying. He hoped there was an answer waiting for him when he got there.

There were two things about Kansas City you couldn't miss. The best steak you'd ever taste, and the worst stench you'd ever smell. If you'd driven as many herds to Kansas City as Bart and Bret had you became immune to the stink. Until you were away from it for a while.

The Mavericks usually stayed at the Longhorn Crystal Palace Hotel but Bart had chosen not to go there this time, considering he didn't know where to look for Jason Miller. He picked one called the Cattle Ranchers Hotel and hoped it was far enough away from the cattle pens to have breathable air. It wasn't the best and it wasn't the worst, but no one knew him here so there was little danger of being addressed as 'Mr. Maverick.' He once again checked in as Bartley Jamison and went right to his room. It had been a long two days and he intended to be up early. The hunt for the hired killer had begun.

XXXXXXXX

Third cup of coffee by seven a.m. Not bad for a 'man of the cards'. He'd left his gambler's wardrobe in Denver, at Sara's house, along with all of Bret's things. He had more than enough money to accomplish the task at hand and poker was not the primary objective. There was no word from Chester and Bart was headed there this morning.

Same block, same Chester. Windows wide open despite the smell, Bart found him just getting ready to leave for some new nefarious scheme. "Bart, old boy! Was just about to go round and see if you were here yet. Timing's perfect. Got time for breakfast? Good, let's go. I'm starved."

Chester was born and bred in Kansas City but had long ago affected an English accent for one con or another and simply kept it. He maintained it lent him an air of dignity that he couldn't get any other way. He was the only man Bart had ever met who could eat and talk at the same time and never miss a word or a bite.

Once they had food in front of them Chester began the tale of what he'd discovered for Bart. "Not an easy man to find, this Jason Miller person. Had to do some real digging amongst those in the know to unearth the scoundrel. What in heaven's name do you want to find a fellow like that for? Couldn't you simply go and kill whoever you want killed yourself? Do you really need this man?"

"Calm down, Chester. I just asked you to find him, not marry him. Where is he?"

"Why do you want to find him? Come on, Bart, who do you need killed?"

That cold, hard look had assumed residence in Bart's eyes again. "Him."

"What in heaven's name for?"

It took him a minute to answer. Now there was fury and as close to hatred as Bart Maverick could get in his eyes instead. "He shot my brother in the back."

"What? Bret Maverick is dead?"

Let Chester believe that. The word would get around quickly. "You didn't let anyone know who was looking for Miller, did you?"

"Bart, old man, do you think I'm stupid?" Pause. "Never mind that question. Are you going to kill him?' Pause. "Never mind that question. When are you going to kill him? Is that why you wanted him found?" Pause. "Say something!"

"Eggs are good, huh?"

"Not that!"

"Which question do you want answered, Chester?"

"When are you going to kill him?"

"Did I say I was going to kill him?"

"BART!"

"Yes?"

"Why do you want to know where he is if you're not going to kill him?"

Bart kept eating. Let Chester drive himself crazy for a minute or two. He was good at that.

"Are you going to answer me?"

"Nope."

"BART!"

Bart finished off the last of his breakfast and pushed the plate away. "Alright, Chester, I've had my fun. I want to know where Miller is because someone hired him to gun down Bret. I need to know who that is."

"That's who you're going to kill?"

"Who said anything about killing?"

"Bart! It's your brother. I know how close the two of you are . . . . were."

"Chester. Listen to me carefully. I need to know where Jason Miller is."

"Alright! He's down on 5th street, in a room over the yards. Rumor has it he's got another job to do soon. Nobody knows who this time. I can take you there. But I'm not staying – the man's a hired killer, for heaven's sake."

"Thank you, Chester. Wasn't that easy?"

XXXXXXXX

When Chester Clinton said 'a room over the yards' he wasn't joking. The stench of closely confined steers was everywhere; somehow the setting fit a hired gun.

True to his word, Chester vanished immediately upon arrival at Miller's boarding house. Bart took up residence in an alley across the street and reacquainted himself with cattle perfume. He'd just gotten a cigar out to light when Miller left the building and walked down the street away from the stockyards. He had a rifle with him and wore a double holster gun belt. Looked like another job was headed his way.

Bart followed him at a discreet distance. Miller made his way to the nearest livery, where he saddled a horse and slipped the rifle in its saddle scabbard. He was making preparations but not leaving yet. He left the livery and headed south, not in any particular hurry. Seemingly careless for a man in his profession.

Next Miller headed to the nearest General Store, 'Kansas City's Finest', as it was labeled. He came out a few minutes later with traveling supplies; he was definitely leaving town soon. Then to Bart's complete surprise, Miller ducked into the nearest saloon. He was back out quickly, carrying a bottle of something that didn't look medicinal, and headed back towards the livery. Bart quit following him and returned to the stables, which seemed like as good a place as any to finally corner the man.

He watched and waited. Soon the hired gun re-entered the livery and, whistling, made his way back to his horse. Whistling! Just as if murder was as simple and uncomplicated a life as playing poker. Bart stepped out from behind the mount with his gun drawn and ready. Miller had a stunned look on his face. He wasn't expecting this.

"Mr. Miller, I presume."

His question was met with a growl. "Who wants to know?"

Give the man an answer. "Bart Maverick."

"What? Who?" There was genuine surprise in his voice. "Maverick?"

"Sound familiar?" Bart watched him carefully; he had no intention of being Jason Miller's next victim.

"You. You had a brother." There was almost a tone of suspicion in the statement.

"Have, Mr. Miller. You didn't succeed. My brother Bret is still alive."

Miller shook his head in disbelief. "Botched that job."

Bart couldn't help but snicker at that statement. "Yes, you did. I want to know who hired you to kill Bret."

Miller laughed outright. "Nobody hired me to kill Bret Maverick."

That wasn't the answer he was looking for. It also wasn't the only surprise coming his way. "What? Then why – "

"The jokes on me, Mr. Maverick. I didn't know there were two brothers. I was hired to kill you."


	11. Chapter 11 The Maverick I Found

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 11 – The Maverick I Found

"What?" He couldn't have heard correctly. Could he?

"I said I was hired to kill you."

"Then why did you shoot Bret?" He was lucky he could talk; that was the last answer he'd expected.

"I didn't know there were two of you. I was hired to kill Maverick. He's the one I found."

Of course. Bret was visible, in San Francisco. Bart was trying to stay alive on a ranch in Carson City. My God, it really was his fault. All his fault. Bret almost died because Jason Miller shot the wrong man.

That didn't answer the question, however; but the question had changed. Who wanted him dead bad enough to hire a contract gunman?

"Who hired you?"

Miller looked at the rifle, so temptingly close in its scabbard. "Don't you know?"

'_Would I be here talking to you if I did?_' he thought. "Just answer the question."

"I don't know."

"What does that mean? How could you not know?"

"Gettin' hired isn't always face-to-face. Sometimes arrangements are made without knowing whose doing the buying. Like this time. Don't know who wanted you dead."

"Then how – "

"Got a letter in the mail. Then a message. Then money. That's all I know."

"Where did the letter come from?"

"Whoever wanted you dead."

This was getting him nowhere fast. "Where was it sent from?"

"Lincoln, Nebraska. But the message came from Austin. And the money came from here."

Lincoln? Austin? Kansas City? He tried desperately to figure out who could have been in all those places. "Wired here?"

"I'm gettin' tired of playing' this game, Maverick. Kill me or get outta the way."

Miller took a step towards him. Bart cocked the gun with no intention of shooting.

"Where was the money wired to, Miller?"

"Kansas State Bank. Five thousand dollars. You didn't come cheap, gambler."

Who spent that kind of money on a hired gun? And on a gambler? Who hated him that much? This man had almost killed his brother for nothing. A case of mistaken identity. And he didn't care. It was just a job gone wrong. He wasn't even worth a bullet.

"Come on. We're going to see the Marshal." Bart let the hammer back down slowly on the .45 and indicated the livery door. Miller wasn't moving.

"No. I've killed too many men. I'm not hangin' for it, so shoot me or let me pass."

"You're not leaving, Miller."

"Then I guess one of us has to kill the other one. Maybe I can get my job done this time."

The gunfighter, knowing he had no chance against a man whose gun was drawn, reached for his anyway and slid sideways while getting off a wild shot. Bart's weapon was still out and he shot back, hitting the target dead center. That quick and it was over. He'd started out wanting to kill the man, then realized he couldn't, and ultimately had to. And he still didn't know who wanted him dead.

XXXXXXXX

The Marshal of Kansas City had no quarrel with Bart's version of the events. Quite frankly he was glad to be rid of the hired gun; one less murderer to worry about. He wrote a quick report that Bart signed. It listed Jason Miller's cause of death simply as 'shot to death in gunfight.' Enough said.

Now there was only the slimmest thread of a lead. He went back to the livery and laid claim to Miller's horse, determined to find the man who'd hired the gunslinger. Kansas State Bank was at the other end of town and he'd had his fair share of walking for the day. If this wasn't a dead end then maybe there was still some trail to follow. It all depended on what information the bank had for him.

Not much, as it turned out. He went right to the bank manager and explained the wire transfer made sometime in the previous 90 days. All he could give them was the amount and the point of origin. They were able to find the date of the wired funds, but there was still no name attached to the transfer. Instead the transaction had been made to the Austin bank from a bank in Topeka. That was all the information available from the Austin bank. If Bart wanted to know anything more he'd have to contact the Topeka bank.

He went to the telegraph office to send a wire to the Topeka bank asking if they could provide any further help. He got no answer. Since patience wasn't always one of Bart's greatest virtues he packed, checked out of the hotel, reclaimed the ownerless horse at the livery and set out for the Kansas town. Riding all night got him to Topeka by morning but he was tired and saddle sore when he arrived. Since it was too early for the bank he found a hotel and a room, expecting to grab a few hours' sleep. Instead fatigue and worry overwhelmed him and he slept for most of the day. By the time he finally woke up he was too late to reach the bank and was forced to spend another night in Topeka.

With nothing to do but wait until the morning there was always his true mistress, poker. Bart found the Kansas Hawk Saloon and a poker game. And a girl named Cindy Jo who didn't want anything from him but his time and attention. She got both.

XXXXXXXX

The next morning he was at the Topeka bank as it opened. He had to go through the whole story again, omitting the reason he wanted to know who the money came from. This bank manger was a woman, and Mrs. Anderson was a lot more helpful than she had to be. The original bank transfer had come from Lincoln, Nebraska over four months ago and went to Austin, then Topeka, and had been sitting at the Topeka Bank waiting for further transfer instructions. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that the payment was hard to trace. Mrs. Anderson assured him that the Lincoln bank was the point of origin and they could tell him who'd wired the money. The only problem was he had to go there in person to get the answer.

He'd had enough of horses for a while and took the stage instead. The trip was a true test of how well his body had finally healed and he was encouraged to find that he handled the coach ride with only minor problems. Once again it was too late to check at the bank upon arrival; another hotel room and another evening spent playing poker. This time there was no Cindy Jo at the end of the night, just sleep.

XXXXXXXX

Would this really be the end of the search? Was he finally going to know who wanted him dead? And if he knew who, would he know why?

He was awake at dawn and had no reason to be. The bank wouldn't be open for hours and there wasn't that much coffee in the world, so he lay in bed and tried to retrace his steps for the last several months. When that yielded no results he went back even further and still had no answers. Had he killed anyone? No, no one but Jason Miller, and he'd been forced into that. Broken anyone's heart? Besides his own, that is? None that he could think of. Gotten caught in any of his so-called friends schemes? No, unless you counted . . . . no, that was family, not friends. Cheated anybody? Not unless they cheated him first. Made any enemies? Now there was a possibility. You just never knew who might get upset with you over poker. But to pay someone five thousand dollars to kill him? That was too big an enemy, even for him.

He was lost. He couldn't think of anyone that wanted him dead that bad. Not one person.


	12. Chapter 12 Donnie

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 12 – Donnie

He was at the Lincoln Savings Bank when the doors were opened. He approached a teller and asked for the Bank Manager. The man posed a simple question: "May I tell Mr. Fitzgerald what this is regarding, sir?"

"Yes, I'm the person who telegrammed yesterday about a wire transfer that occurred in January of this year from this branch. I understand I need to speak to Mr. Fitzgerald about it."

"Yes sir, he would be the man to see. Please wait just a moment and I'll get him." The teller hurried off behind a door marked 'Private' and wasn't gone but a minute. "Please follow me, sir."

Mr. Fitzgerald's office was small and crowded. He was a man of medium build, medium height and medium coloring. An altogether medium man. He reached out to shake Bart's hand. "I'm Alfred Fitzgerald, Mr. Maverick. I understand you need some information regarding a string of wire transfers that originated at this bank. May I ascertain the reason for your inquiry?"

Bart was uncomfortable with the question and attempted to skirt the issue. "It's a personal matter, Mr. Fitzgerald, that I'd rather not divulge."

The 'medium' man shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Maverick, without some kind of reason for the inquiry I cannot grant you access to the information."

That left Bart no option but the obvious. "The person that wired those funds used them to pay a hired gun to kill me."

Mr. Fitzgerald looked startled. "He what?!"

Bart was succinct and to the point. "He hired a killer."

The bank manager shook his head. "Are you sure?"

No doubt about it. "I'm sure."

"I really hate to think that this institution was used in a plot to have someone murdered."

"Sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald, but it was."

Again, the shaking of the head by the medium man. "I can certainly understand your interest in finding the originator of the funds transfer. May I inquire as to the current status of the purported assassin?"

"Dead."

Mr. Fitzgerald took a big gulp of air before continuing. "So you have no proof that this indeed occurred?"

Bart's patience, what little there was of it, was being severely tested. "I can't produce a dead man as proof."

One more question. "May I ask how the man died?"

The more than blunt answer. "I shot him."

"I see." A pause, as if considering the options and rejecting them. "If you can wait here, Mr. Maverick, I can produce the original bank transfer records for you."

"No problem, Mr. Fitzgerald." He took a cigar out of his coat and struck a match to light it while Fitzgerald scurried off to wherever he needed to scurry off to. It took a few minutes but when the manager returned he carried a folder full of paperwork. He took his seat behind the desk and opened the folder.

"Let's see, the original deposit and transfer happened in January. That shouldn't be too had to find." He started thumbing through all the papers in the stack. "June, May, April, March, oops, here's one misfiled. February, Jan – " Fitzgerald suddenly stopped talking and looked dismayed. "There are no January records. Hmm. Must be filed in the wrong place. Excuse me, I'll be right back."

Now what? Bart shifted in his chair and watched the back side of Mr. Fitzgerald disappear again. This time he was gone longer and when he returned he didn't look happy.

"Mr. Maverick, I don't know what to tell you. I must apologize for this. I just don't know how it could have happened."

"How what happened?"

Fitzgerald looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. "The January transfers are missing."

"And that means – "

"Until we find the January transfers I can't give you any answers."

Bart exhaled slowly. He couldn't comprehend what he'd just heard. Was this real?

"Are you sure?"

"I'm so sorry. I don't know what to tell you. We had a new teller filing during that period and he must have put the transfers in the wrong folder. I have someone going through everything right now to find them. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to give us some time."

How convenient. "This new teller, who is it?"

"A man named Sylvester. John Sylvester. He was only employed here for a month or so. Left in February. Some sort of family problems and he went back home. He was very conscientious. I'm sure we'll find the records. Can you come back by tomorrow?"

Bart had no desire to spend another night here in the corn and wheat fields, but what choice did he have? "Please make sure that you do find them, Mr. Fitzgerald. I need to return to Denver as soon as possible. I'll be by in the morning." He got up from the chair and shook hands with the manager, even though that was the last thing he wanted to do. Don't bite the hand that feeds you, boy.

He went to the telegraph office and sent a wire to Denver:

_How's Bret?_

_No answers yet._

_Jason Miller dead._

_Bart_

He left the hotel name with the telegraph clerk and walked back there. He felt like he was being run in circles, from one dead end to another. John Sylvester? Bart didn't know anyone by that name. Why the misfiling? Now he had to wait another day to see if there were any answers. Or did he?

He went back to the bank and talked with the same teller that had taken him to the manager this morning. The teller remembered Sylvester living in the Lancaster City Hotel for a time and gave Bart directions.

The hotel clerk had to be persuaded with twenty dollars to let Bart look at the guest register from January and February. He didn't remember John Sylvester. There was no one registered by that name, but there was a Donnie Monroe from Santé Fe, New Mexico. His was the only name that appeared in January and February of this year.

Donnie Monroe wasn't familiar, either. But Santé Fe certainly was. Time for another telegram, this one to Samantha Crawford in Dry Springs, New Mexico. Maybe she could tell him who the mystery man was.

Back to the telegraph office. The one he sent now was just as short as the first he'd sent today. It was addressed to Samantha Crawford, Dry Springs, New Mexico. It read simply:

_Donnie Monroe from Santé Fe?_

_Urgent I know._

_Bart_

Now all he could do was wait and see who answered him first.

XXXXXXXX

Later in the evening he went to the dining room at the hotel to have dinner. There was a telegram from Sara waiting for him.

_Bret improving daily_

_Denver soon?_

_Sara_

At least Bret was getting better. If he could only get some much needed information, he might be too. After dinner he checked the front desk again but there was no reply from Samantha. Looked like he was stuck in Lincoln at least one more night. At least the grain fields didn't smell like the cattle pens.

Whether from boredom or for some other reason, Bart slept late the next morning. It was after ten o'clock when he got back to the Lincoln Savings Bank and Alfred Fitzgerald had been called out of town on business. The teller from yesterday that tried to help wasn't in either, and Bart was beyond frustrated. He was still chasing his tail and getting nowhere. When all else fails, play poker, and that's what he intended to do. On his way to the nearest saloon he happened past the telegraph office, and the clerk came running out after him.

"Mr. Maverick, wait up! I was just about to take this down to your hotel. Wire just came in not five minutes ago. You saved me a trip. Here you are, sir."

Bart took the telegram and stopped to read it. It was an answer from Samantha

_Go to Denver - immediately_

_Donnie Monroe is Lon Tenley's son._

_Sam_

**NOTE TO READERS: **If you don't know the name Tenley then you need to read "A Marriage of Inconvenience."


	13. Chapter 13 Everything is Different Now

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 13 - Everything is Different Now

The next train to Denver left at two that afternoon. Bart bought a ticket and returned to the hotel to pack the few belongings he had with him. There was no longer any need to find the bank records. It was obvious that Donnie Monroe posed as the bank teller John Sylvester so he could cover his tracks. That way the murder could never be traced back to him.

Only Bart Maverick didn't die. And now he knew who was trying to have him killed. And an unenviable task awaited him in Denver – explaining to his brother that he was shot by mistake – that Bart was the actual target and this whole mess was his fault. Funny, when he thought about having killed someone, Lon Tenley never came to mind. The gun play that took Tenley's life was actually self-defense, after Tenley shot and killed Bart's wife Caroline. And it happened a lifetime ago.

Maverick wasn't even aware that Lon Tenley had a son, much less one old enough to have the means to seek revenge. The whole Dry Springs Valley knew what happened out at the Double C Ranch and any family left behind by Tenley should have known, too. Then again, knowing and believing weren't always the same.

The ride to Denver was long and arduous. Everything looked different than it had traveling east; headed west added a perspective not previously imagined. How was he going to tell Bret the whole ugly, awful truth? The worry consumed his mind; even playing poker wasn't considered. Maverick Solitaire kept beating him. Most of the trip was spent creating, rehearing and rejecting explanations for the events of the last several weeks.

His arrival, signaled by the customary cry of "DENVER! ALL OFF FOR DENVER!" was less than awe-inspiring. The first place he went was back to the Denver Palace Hotel. This time familiar faces were behind the front desk and he checked in as himself rather than his alter-ego. A different room, 218, but the same dilemma. He took the time to bathe, shave and change clothes before setting out for Jed Thompson's jail. Best to keep the lawman apprised of the situation.

Thompson looked up from his latest cup of coffee and was surprised to see Bart entering the jail. He'd heard about the death of Jason Miller but didn't yet know the circumstances. He assumed the gunfight to be fair, even though one of Maverick's reasons for making the trip was to 'dispose' of the man that shot his brother in the back. Much better the gambler survived than the hired gun.

Bart didn't say anything, just helped himself to a cup of coffee and drifted over to Jed's desk, where he took the empty seat. They sat in silence for a minute or two before anything was expressed.

"Just get back?"

"Yep. This morning."

"Seen your brother yet?"

That was difficult. He wanted to, but hadn't. "Nope."

The marshal gave the gambler an odd look. "Heard he's doin' better."

"I hope so."

There was a long pause. Then, finally, "What happened?"

"With Miller?"

"Yeah."

That was the easy question to answer. "Tried to take him in, he wasn't goin'. Pulled his gun and decided it was time to die." He took a deep breath. "I accommodated him."

Nothing that Jed Thompson hadn't already figured. "Any more to tell?"

Bart looked at Thompson before answering carefully. "Yeah, but I need to talk to Bret first."

Uh-oh. That didn't sound good. "You find out who wanted him dead?"

Bart's coffee cup was empty and he got up to get a refill. He walked back to the marshal's desk slowly and stood there for a minute before sitting back down. "Not Bret. Me."

That was not the response Jed was expecting. "You? Are you sure?"

Bret Maverick had a reputation for getting into things he needed help getting out of. Especially when it came to women. But not usually Bart, unless he allowed one of his friend's to talk him into something. This must really be serious. No wonder he wanted to see his brother first. Time to back off what appeared to be a touchy subject. How could it not be? Bret had escaped death by the narrowest of margins.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I wish I wasn't." He sighed at the thought of explaining this all. Best go get it over with. "Don't know if there's gonna be more trouble or not. It all depends."

"On you or somebody else?"

"Not me." The gambler got out of his chair and headed for the door. "Got someplace to be." He left just as quickly as he'd arrived. Next stop – Sara Hanford's.

XXXXXXXX

Sara opened the door at once. "Bart!" There was nothing but joy in her exclamation.

He tipped his hat, as customary. "Sara."

"Did you just get back?"

"This morning."

She caught the tone in his voice quickly. "What's wrong?"

He ignored the question. "How's my brother?"

"He's doing better. He's asleep right now. Come in and get out of the door."

He walked into the house and turned to face her. "I need to see him."

Hadn't he heard her? "He's asleep, Bart."

"I need to see him now, Sara."

'_Why right now?_' she wondered. "Go wake him up."

Before Bart could move, Bret's voice was heard from the other room. "Bart? Is that you?"

"Yep, Brother Bret, it's me. I'll be right in." To Sara he said, "See, he heard me."

"What was so important that it couldn't wait?"

Bart removed his hat and turned it in his hands, nervously. "I'll tell you later." He dropped the hat on a table and strode into the bedroom as if all was right with the world. "Well, invalid, how are you?"

"I've been better." Actually, for being shot and almost killed a few short weeks ago, Bret looked much improved over the day he was moved into the small house. He grinned a big grin at his brother; he was really glad to have him back. And even better in one piece.

Bart grinned back, trying to put on a good show for the man in the bed. "And you've been worse."

"That I have. So tell me, now that you're back in reasonably decent condition, what happened?"

"Not much." He sat down in the chair already pulled up next to the bed. "Sara's seat?"

"Yep. She has a bad habit of sitting here with me." Bret was anxious to hear what Bart learned, but his brother seemed to be evading the question. "Talk to me."

Bart propped his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on those same hands. "Do I have to?"

Bret laughed. Then caught himself suddenly; it still hurt to laugh. "Bartley Jamison Maverick, what is the problem?"

Bart cleared his throat and raised his head. He couldn't put it off any longer. "Miller is dead."

"I assumed that."

"Not intentionally."

"I assumed that, too. I take it there isn't a posse chasing you?"

"Nope. No posse. It was his choice between the rope and the gun. I guess my gun won out."

"Does it surprise you, after Montana?" Bret was referring to Bart's near hanging in Montana for a murder he didn't commit.

Bart shook his head. "A gun is awfully final."

Bret snorted at that one. "And a rope isn't?" He waited for Bart to continue but his question was met with silence. "What aren't you telling me, Brother Bart?"

The quick reply. "Something I'd rather not have to say."

The older brother tried without success to understand why the younger brother was being so evasive. Instead of forcing the issue, he said as simply and as quietly as he could, "Please tell me, Bart."

Great. That was all he needed. This was hard enough as it was; now Bret was forced to ask politely. _'Answer him, stupid,_' was the best his mind could do.

"You were shot by mistake, Bret."

"Mistake? Why? Who was he after?"

"Me."


	14. Chapter 14 Walkaway Joe

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 14 – Walkaway Joe

Incredulity. "What? You?"

The questions were met with silence, so they were repeated. "He was after you?"

"Yes."

"Who hired him?"

"Donnie Monroe."

Bret was confused and without thinking asked "Who's Donnie Monroe?"

Bart answered without prompting this time. "Lon Tenley's son."

It took a moment to register with his brother. Then "The man who - ?"

"- killed Caroline. Yes."

Good Lord. No wonder Bret had to drag it out of him. Just when he thought everything was finally buried, along with the only wife a Maverick offspring ever had, a specter from the past raised its ugly head. "Did you know he had a son?"

"No." There was anger, and regret, and sadness in that one word.

Bret shifted his position in the bed so that he was facing Bart. "How'd you find out?"

"You mean after I ran all over Kansas and Nebraska?" He told Bret all about the banks and the missing files and 'John Sylvester.' That brought him to the helpful bank teller and the Lancaster City Hotel; then the hotel clerk and 'Donnie Monroe.' Finally he came to Samantha and the wires. "Here's her answer." He pulled the folded up wire out of his pocket and gave it to Bret to read.

"Smart girl."

"She always has been."

"I meant the Denver part."

"Yeah. Where else would I go?"

Bret chuckled slyly. "Oh, I don't know. Santé Fe? Dry Springs?" Bart gave him a look that made him wince inside. Hadn't his kid brother been through enough in the last two or three years? Maybe it was time to make sure Bart knew how Bret felt.

"Brother Bart – no, seriously, Bart – this wasn't your fault. Tenley was the one in the wrong – you know that. The man was gonna kill you. You did what you had to do to survive. If his son has another view of things he's wrong."

Bart put his head in his hands. "You were shot instead of me."

Bret laughed then, not caring that it hurt. "Yeah. And we're both still here. You been through enough. This wasn't your fault."

"I'd like to believe that."

"Do believe it. What happened to the Bart Maverick that saved my hide in Tucson? Or that time in St. Louis when Buckley got us into so much trouble and you got us all out of it? Where'd he go?"

Bart sat there for the longest time, thinking about what Bret had just said to him. His brother was right. When had he gotten so glum? So worried about everything? In Dry Springs? Mexico? Montana? Carson City? Here in Denver? Or had he always been this way inside and just hidden it from everyone, including himself?

"Maybe he got lost in Mexico."

"Son of a gun. I never thought of that. Is that where you were the whole time I was tryin' to find you? In Mexico?"

This time it was Bart's turn to laugh. "Yep. That's where I was."

"I looked everywhere but there. I even looked in Texas."

"I know." He'd managed to elude his brother for six months by just staying in one place. "I don't know what's happened to me, big brother. Something changed in one of those places and it hasn't been right since. Sure would like to quit worrying about all this."

Bret reached over and grabbed his brother's arm. "Just leave it, Bart. Leave it all behind. Just breathe in and out and don't worry about everything. Whatever it is, we'll work it out. Like we always have. It sure would be nice to have my brother back."

"Yeah. For me too."

Just then Sara appeared in the doorway. "Anybody interested in lunch?"

"You know it, Missy." Bret had gotten his appetite back and was attempting to make up for all the meals he'd missed. Bart started to say 'no thanks' and then saw the look on Sara's face.

"Sure."

She was pleased. "Coming right up."

XXXXXXXX

After lunch Bret was pretty well worn out and Sara decided a nap was in order. She wanted to talk to Bart, anyway, so he chose to be a gentleman and help her clean up. He cleared the plates as she put everything away. When they were done she asked him to sit in the parlor with her so they could talk.

"Is Jason Miller gone?"

"Yes."

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes."

"In a gunfight?"

"Yes, but not by choice."

She searched his face for guilt and found none. Good. It was unavoidable.

"Did you find out who he was working for?"

"Yes, Sara, I did. Bret's safe. No one will come after him again."

"What does that mean, Bart? Did you kill someone else?"

He shook his head 'no.' "They were never after him. It was a case of mistaken identity."

"You mean that someone tried to kill him because they thought he was someone else?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

The look on her face was immense relief, followed swiftly by curiosity. "Who did they mistake him for?"

He couldn't help but grin as he told her "Me."

"But you don't look alike!"

"I know. Miller was just given a general description and told 'Maverick.' Tall, dark, young, gambler. There aren't but a few Mavericks running around and he figured Bret was the Maverick he was lookin' for. Didn't bother him one bit he'd shot the wrong man."

"And the man who hired him?"

"The son of a man I shot in self-defense a long time ago."

"Does he know you're alive?"

"I don't know."

"You have to come stay here, Bart."

"I can't do that, Sara. That'd put you and Bret in danger. If he's comin' after someone, it'll be after me."

"What if he comes after Bret as a way to get to you?"

"I don't think he'd do that, Sara. He went to too much trouble to keep this all a big secret."

She looked off into the distance before she spoke. "What are you going to do?"

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know yet."

"Are you leaving Denver?"

"I may have to. I've sent wires to Santé Fe and asked some questions. What I do depends on the answers I get."

"When will you know?"

"Soon, I hope. Don't say anything to Bret, not until I know something. Then I'll tell him." He got up to leave and Sara walked him to the door. "Thanks for everything you've done. You've been good for him. He deserves it."

She searched his eyes for an answer to a question she hadn't even asked yet. "And what about you? Don't you deserve something good too?"

He thought about Caroline and the love he lost. Then he thought about Rose and the love he walked away from. He looked down at Sara and smiled. "Yes, I do. And someday I'll have it. But not right now." He kissed her on the top of the head and left.


	15. Chapter 15 Maverick Charm

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 15 – Maverick Charm

There was no answer to the wires he'd sent that morning so he went to play poker. He found a different saloon, at the opposite end of Denver, to play in. He didn't want to go back to the place where Bret was shot. The poker gods were still smiling and he walked out at dawn several thousand dollars richer. He returned to the hotel and secured the door, then undressed and went to bed, gun and holster on the mattress next to him.

He woke up at two that afternoon with someone knocking on his door. The gun was out and aimed before he ever got up out of the bed. "Who is it?"

"Front desk, Mr. Maverick. I have two telegrams for you."

"Clarence?"

"Yes, sir, it's me. I know you were waitin' for these so I thought I better bring 'em up."

He opened the door just a crack to make sure it really was Clarence. Bart took the telegrams and handed Clarence a dollar. "Thanks, Mr. Maverick."

The first one was from the sheriff in Santé Fe. According to him, Donnie Monroe sold his business about six months ago for a tidy sum of money and moved to Austin, Texas.

The second telegram was from Samantha. She gave him a complete description of Donnie and explained that Donnie's mother was Lon Tenley's common-law-wife. She'd left him when Donnie was about ten years old. The boy idolized his father.

Bart got dressed and went back to the telegraph office. He sent a third wire to a friend in Austin, Jim Eckersley, asking him to find out if Donnie Monroe did live in Austin and if he was there now. He sent Sam's description of Donnie on to Jim and didn't expect an answer for two or three days. Too late for breakfast or lunch and too early for dinner, he returned to Sara's house to see his brother. He found Sara out and Bret keeping a .45 Peacemaker company.

"Teachin' it to play poker?" he asked his brother.

"Naw, it can't count past six. Don't know what it'd do with a King-High straight. Don't you have anything better to do than come here?"

"Bret, I'm waitin' on an answer right now about Monroe. If he's still in Austin, I'm gonna leave Denver and go on down there. See what I can do about this face-to-face."

"And if he's not there?"

"Then I'm stayin' here. I can't take the chance he'd try to come after me himself and make the same mistake Miller did. Gettin' shot once for me is bad enough. Gettin' shot the second time is a little much for even a brother to ask."

"Why thank you, Brother Bart, that's considerate of you. I would like to be healed from these wounds before I think about taking another bullet for you. Do you know what this Monroe looks like?"

Once again Bart pulled out Sam's telegram, only this time he read it to Bret. "Six feet, sandy blond hair, blue eyes, left-handed, long scar under right eye."

Bret chuckled at the thoroughness of Sam's description. "Sounds like she's fixin' to marry him."

"Nope, she wouldn't do that. Samantha is true blue to the Maverick boys."

"Yeah, I always said it'd be cheaper if one of us married that girl."

"Your turn, Bret, I already married a Crawford."

For the first time Bart mentioned his marriage to Caroline without a hitch in his voice. _'Maybe the boy's making progress,'_ Bret thought. Out loud he asked, "Say, I wanna know what you did to my girl while I was incapacitated."

"Who, Sara?"

"Yes, Sara."

"I didn't do a thing to her. Why?"

"Because she was interested before I got shot. After you left all she could talk about was you."

"Oh, I plead not guilty to that charge. I didn't have anything to do with it. If she switched sides she did it all by herself. I'm sure you're exaggerating."

"No, I'm not," Bret stated calmly. "It sounds like its little brother she wants, now."

Bart didn't know if Bret was kidding or serious. "Not interested. Don't get me wrong, she's sweet and kind and thoughtful. Not to mention good-looking. But I remember what you told me in Doc Samuels' office."

"Which was?"

He did his best to imitate his older brother's exact delivery of the order. "Hands . . . . . . off."

They both enjoyed a laugh. "Yeah, I guess I told the wrong person. She treats me like . . . . . . like Jody treated you."

"She did have a brother," Bart reminded him. "And you are staying in his room."

"Trust me, this is one instance where the reputed Maverick charm has failed to work."

Bart grinned slyly. "Evidently only your half of it."

Bret would have thrown something at his brother, but the only thing close was the Peacemaker. And he wasn't about to let go of that. "Little stinker."

"Now there's a name I haven't heard for a while."

"Yeah, if the boot fits . . . . . "

"Seriously, I've got some time on my hands. Anything you need?"

"Yes, but I don't think you're my type, Brother Bart."

"You must be feeling better. Your jokes are getting worse."

"I'm about to go stir crazy. How about some five-card draw? We'll have to use your cards. Mine got lost in the chaos."

"Oh good," Bart replied. "We can take turns cheating with my deck."

"MY jokes are worse?"

It felt good to both of them to be able to laugh at something.

XXXXXXXX

Bart was right about the reply from Eckersley in Texas. Almost three days later he finally got the answer, and it was not the one he was hoping for.

_Monroe left for Denver._

_Should be there now._

_Eckersley_

Even if he was slow, Jim Eckersley was reliable. And now the game of cat and mouse could begin. Whether he wanted it to or not.


	16. Chapter 16 Everything is Beautiful

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 16 – Everything is Beautiful

Sit around and wait. That's all Bart could do, wait and see if somebody showed up to kill him. Dying was not a happy thought but he'd contemplated it before. Mexico. Montana. Carson City. A brief instant in Kansas City. So the thought of dying wasn't new.

His bigger concern was the fear of Bret dying. What if Donnie Monroe mistook his brother for him? What if he killed Bret just to even the score? Or Sara? She was the truly innocent party in all this.

He stopped in to see Marshal Thompson the next time he was near the jail. Donnie Monroe was now high on the list of 'persons of interest' to be questioned about the murder attempt on Bret. Bart tried to develop a daily routine that could be used to draw out anyone following or watching him. Have coffee, read the newspaper, visit Bret, accompany Sara on any errands she had, play poker, play poker and play poker. Days went by without any indication that there was anything out of the ordinary going on. The only issue that changed was Bret slowly regaining his strength and endurance and Sara having her hands full with his 'care and feeding.'

The better Bret felt, the more restless he got. Never one to sit around and do nothing, that's exactly what he was forced into doing. It drove him crazy; Bart and Sara right along with it. Finally Sara agreed to have Dr. Samuels' visit just to examine the restless gambler. The doctor pronounced him 'fit as could be expected given the circumstances' and told everyone he could begin walking when he felt up to it. Bret took that to mean 'right now' and wanted to get out of bed that very day. Sara convinced him to wait, but the most she could get him to agree to was tomorrow.

The next day demanded a change in Bart's routine, since he'd promised to be there for Bret's scheduled walk. Breakfast was in order that day and as soon as that was over he headed to Sara's. She had her hands full trying to convince Bret to wait for his brother to arrive and help him dress and was appropriately grateful when Bart showed up.

"I swear, if I'd known how stubborn he was going to be . . . . . "

Bart laughed, remembering their conversation about the Maverick bull-headedness. Which Sara had conveniently forgotten. "I told you he was a handful," Bart attempted to remind her.

"It runs in the family, doesn't it?"

"What? Me stubborn? No, I'm not stubborn. Bret got it all."

"Please go help him dress before I run away from home."

As requested, Bart went in to assist his brother. Having been in the same position not that long ago, he was sensitive to how difficult it was to get dressed when you were stiff and in pain. He was surprised to find Bret ready to go, except for boots. "I can't go barefoot and I can't bend over and pull them on," was his major complaint.

Bart was laughing so hard he almost couldn't answer. "Are ya sure? God forbid I try to help you do somethin' you don't want help with."

"Yes I'm sure. Get down there and get 'em on."

Bart got down on the ground to help but Bret couldn't or wouldn't stand still. "Would you quit fidgeting?"

"Is this what you went through in Carson City?"

"No, because I wasn't in such a hurry that I made people crazy. Stand still if you want these on."

"Oh sure, it's my fault."

Bart finally grabbed Bret's left foot and stuck it in the left boot, forcing it in so fast that he made his brother howl with pain.

"OW! Knock it off, Bart!"

"I'd like to knock it off right now," Bart muttered under his breath. To his credit he didn't say it loud enough to be heard. "Quit fighting me and it'll be easier to get the other one on."

"Do you have this much trouble getting your own on?"

"No, but then I'm not sitting on the floor when I put them on. And I'm putting them on my feet, not someone else's."

"Just get the other one on."

"Alright. But you might live to regret that." And before Bret had time to yelp or issue any other form of verbal protest, the second boot was where it was supposed to be.

"You leave something to be desired as a gentleman's assistant, Brother Bart."

"You leave something to be desired as a gentleman, Brother Bret."

"Stop it, boys!" Sara was standing in the doorway, listening to the two of them bicker. She was trying not to laugh. "It must have been a real treat to grow up in a house with the two of you. There aren't any more Mavericks, are there?"

"Yes, actually." That was Bart.

"Our cousin Beau." That was Bret.

"Just like us," Bart offered.

"But we're better looking," Bret added.

Sara looked at Bret and was surprised he was already dressed. She turned to question Bart. "How did you do that so fast?"

"Don't look at me. He was dressed when I got here."

"What are we waiting for? Let's go." Bret was champing at the bit, more than ready to get out of the room and the house.

Bret led the way, with Sara on his heels just in case he needed her and Bart following, intending to keep a close watch on the two in front of him and an eye out for anyone else. Stepping out of the house, Bret saw the city of Denver for the first time since the night he was shot. He took a deep breath of fresh air and felt the warm sunshine. Everything he saw looked splendid, after staring at the same four walls for weeks on end. He who knew mostly saloons and smoke filled hotel rooms reveled in the idea of daylight.

Bart was considerably more cautious. Bret wasn't as fast-moving as he expected to be, so they traveled down the sidewalk at a pace more conducive to keeping watch for the elusive Mr. Monroe. Earlier than he would have liked Bret was forced to slow down and walk with Sara's arm through his, to give him some balance and a steady hand guiding him. Who knew walking would be this tiring?

The streets were teeming with people and Bret was just glad to be breathing. Nothing makes you appreciate life as much as almost dying, and right now he was awfully happy that he hadn't. He and Sara chatted endlessly about all sorts of trivial matters, much as she and Bart had done while he lay in Dr. Samuels' office fighting for his life. The longer they walked the slower they got, and he finally had to admit he needed a breather. Sara found a bench outside the general store and Bret sat with Bart as guardian while Sara went inside.

"Don't remember walking being this hard," he said while trying to catch his breath.

"Yeah, could have told you that," was his brother's answer. He thought back to his attempts at walking soon after the knife wounds in Nevada. Not a good idea, and Bret had certainly progressed further than he did. Back to being fully recovered from his last bout with a lethal weapon, Bart wanted the same as soon as possible for Bret. He didn't want Sara to become dependent on them as a means of support. Unbeknownst to him, she had already begun looking for a permanent job to replace the Palace. As a matter of fact, she was actually talking to the owner of the general store right now. Mr. McLary was glad to know she was available and told her he would find a place for her when she was ready. The way Bret was going she estimated another two weeks maximum before he would no longer need her help, and she told McLary the same. There. She had a means of support again.

By the time Sara emerged with a new job under her belt, Bret was more than ready to go back to the house. Bart and Sara got him on his feet and eased him back down the sidewalk. They were so preoccupied with the man walking between them that Bart saw but paid no attention to the cowhand sitting outside the barber shop. He looked like all the other drifters scattered around town with one exception – his holster was tied down to his left leg rather than his right.


	17. Chapter 17 Falling in Love Can Kill

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 17 – Falling in Love Can Kill

Two more days went by, then three. The daily walk became a part of Bart's routine. Nothing changed; nothing was different, or odd, or unusual. Except for the cowhand that sat in different places around town and kept an eye on the trio as they walked further and further each day. Even he became a fixture on the streets and such a regular object on their route that they didn't notice him.

Dr. Samuels' was surprised at the recovery power of the Mavericks but was glad that Bret had done so well. He declared there was nothing more he could do and now it was between Bret and his body to finish the healing. With that pronouncement Bret was ready to move back into the hotel and return Sara's home to her. She protested but Bret was adamant. He'd taken up enough of her time and space.

Bart came over and helped his brother back to a room next to his. Then he returned to Sara's for all of Bret's possessions while Sara helped him get settled at the hotel. Bart was walking back to the Palace the first time he actually saw the cowhand and noticed something odd – he just couldn't put his finger on it. Whatever the irregularity was it stayed in the back of his mind and bothered him the rest of the day.

Sara was invited to dinner at the best restaurant in Denver by the Maverick brothers. They both owed her big time and they knew it. Bart wore one of the new coats he'd had tailored all those weeks ago when he and Bret first got to Denver, and knocked at his brother's door at seven sharp. It took a minute but Bret finally answered and whistled at him.

"My, my, for a man who's not interested you certainly got all dressed up." Bret opened the door and let his brother in. He was one to talk; he'd cleaned up nicely, too. Sara would have the two best looking men in Denver as escorts.

"Tired of looking like a saddle bum," was Bart's reply. This was really the first chance he'd had to wear the new clothes. Besides, Sara certainly deserved to be treated like a lady, and that included fine looking escorts. Bret had dressed for the occasion, too. "We'd better go if we're going to be on time," Bart added.

It took a while to descend the staircase; Bret was fine on everything but stairs since his back was still sore and stiff where the bullets went in and it was hard to look down and watch where he was going. Clarence was at the front desk and he whistled at both of them.

"Must be an important evening, gentlemen," he offered as a follow-up to the whistle.

"It's a thank-you dinner," Bart volunteered as he guided Bret down the last step.

"For a very special lady," Bret added. "To show our appreciation."

"For Miss Sara?" Clarence asked. "She is special."

They went outside and got into the buggy that Bart procured from the nearest livery; the younger Maverick took the reins so that Bret wouldn't have to move or strain his back and shoulders, which were still tender. When the buggy pulled up in front of the Hanford house Bart got out to collect Sara.

She was indeed beautiful; but then all the girls that attracted Bret's attention were. Everything about her sparkled and both men were quite taken with her. Bart thought of Rose and made sure that Sara sat in the buggy next to his brother. Bret could give her his complete, undivided attention. Bart's heart was still elsewhere.

The food was outstanding; they even ordered champagne, a rarity in the Maverick lifestyle. Neither was a drinker but this was a special occasion. Bart happily paid the bill and went to reclaim the buggy so Bret and Sara could have some time alone.

"He's somethin', that kid brother of mine."

"Yes he is," Sara replied.

"You like him, don't you?"

She answered truthfully, "I like both of you."

"You know what I meant."

"I do know what you meant. And the answer's yes, but there's something else. He seems broken, and I want to fix him." She looked at Bret with a sense of pleading in her eyes. "You do too, don't you?"

Bret sighed, not the first time he'd heard it or even thought of Bart that way. "I would if I could."

"Has he always been like that?" Now Sara's curiosity had gotten the best of her.

"Sort of. He was sick a lot as a kid but he always had momma. Until she died. It was tough on him. He seemed to be better until – well, until New Mexico."

"What happened in New Mexico? He didn't say; just that he'd killed a man in self-defense."

Bret hesitated to explain it all to Sara. It really wasn't his story to tell, but he felt obligated to give her some sort of answer. "He lost his wife in New Mexico."

She was startled and you could hear it in her voice. "He was married?"

"For a short time, yes." He let that set for a minute and then added, "He made the mistake of falling in love with her. Donnie Monroe's father killed her."

Now it made more sense to her. "I see. And Monroe's father was the man he shot?"

"Yes."

She shook her head while she digested the news. "Thanks for telling me. That explains a lot."

"Yep. It does." He brightened considerably. "My old Pappy used to say, 'Son, steer clear of weddings, because one of 'em is liable to be your own.' Good advice."

"And you've taken it to heart."

He laughed at that one. "Like it was a religion."

"Nothing serious for you?" Again her curiosity reared its head.

Bret thought for a moment before answering her honestly. "There was one." He chuckled, lest she push him for an explanation. "I got over it. What about you?"

"None for me. Maybe I'm too picky."

"Or not picky enough. Look who you're keeping company with."

Her retort was as quick as his. "Two very fine gentlemen."

Honesty was always the best policy. "Who happen to be professional gamblers."

"Like I said – "

"Sara, wait. How long has Bart been gone?"

She came to the same bone-chilling conclusion Bret had. "Too long."

"Let's go." They got up from the table and walked out together. There was no sign of Bart. The horses and the buggy were tied out front. "Donnie Monroe." There was anger in Bret's voice; he'd just let Bart walk outside with no protection and no one to watch his back. "Damn!"

Sara didn't wait to be helped up into the buggy; she climbed in by herself and took the reins. "Come on, let's go tell Marshal Thompson."

Bret managed to get up into the seat beside her with no help. "Take me back to the hotel first. I need my gun."


	18. Chapter 18 No Way Out

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 18 – No Way Out

Everything was dark and his head hurt. He could feel a little trickle of something warm and wet running down his neck and he knew from past experience it was blood. Where was he? He tried to reach up and touch the back of his head and that's when he discovered his hands were tied behind his back. And it came to him like a lightning bolt – the cowhand that had something odd about him earlier today – he wore his gun on the left side of his body, not his right. Donnie Monroe. Why hadn't he realized that sooner?

Slowly he understood that he was lying on the bed of some sort of wagon, and he had a blanket covering him completely. And the wagon was moving. Anything Monroe had in mind wasn't going to occur in Denver, where someone might interfere with the plan – whatever that was. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious or how much time had passed. Had Sara and Bret even missed him yet? And if they did, what good would that do? They had no way to find him. If he was lucky, someday they'd find his body.

At least Bret was safe. It occurred to him that the standing joke he and his brother had about being an only child was about to come true. For Bret. Someone else would have to walk Jody down the aisle when she got married. Someone else would have to play with his nieces and nephews and tell them about Uncle Bart. Someone else would have to lay Pappy in the ground next to his beloved Belle. Unless there was a way out of this.

'_Keep thinking, Bart,'_ his mind raced. _'Maybe it's not as bad as it seems.'_

The wagon was stopping. He closed his eyes and played dead. He laid there for a few minutes and then he heard what sounded like barn doors being opened. The horses walked slowly forward for several feet and then stopped again. The same sound was repeated; doors closing. The wagon bed jostled, somebody got in and pulled the blanket off of him. Next thing he knew he'd been thrown over a shoulder and carried to a corner of the barn, then rudely dropped on the ground. He landed face down and lay there listening to boots walk away. Then the doors, opening and closing again, being barred from the outside and locked.

Once he was sure there was no one in the barn with him he opened his eyes. It was dark and gloomy and the only thing that had softened his fall was the large pile of hay he'd been dropped on. His hands were still tied behind his back and it was difficult to sit up. He finally rolled over and got his legs under him so he could get to his feet. It was still night outside and there was only a small sliver of light coming in from between the doors. Just bright enough so that Bart could see the horses still hitched to the wagon, standing in the middle of the barn. Again the thoughts ran through his mind – where was he? If his captor was truly Donnie Monroe, why wasn't he dead? What was he doing tied up in a barn?

He made his way quietly to the closed barn doors and looked out through the crack. It appeared to be a small ranch, a horse tied to the hitching rail in front of the cabin. Rather than in the barn? So he couldn't escape? There was a light on inside the cabin and he could barely make out a figure through the small window. Definitely a man, but anything else was difficult to distinguish. He tried to work his hands free of the rope but the knots were impossible to untie. No sense trying to look for anything to cut the ropes with; in the dim light he could barely see two feet in front of him. Whatever he was going to try had to wait for daylight. Maybe then he could find a way out or something sharp.

XXXXXXXX

Sara drove the buggy like a madwoman back to the Palace Hotel. She scrambled down out of the seat and helped Bret get down and inside as fast as he could, then up to his room. He strapped on the gun belt and checked the gun for bullets, then tucked the new Remington that he'd bought to replace the one he'd given Bart into his inside coat pocket. He and Sara were back down the stairs and into the buggy in what seemed like only seconds. She drove the short distance to Jed Thompson's office and Bret was out of the buggy and helping her down without thinking about how much it hurt.

Jed was half asleep and hoping the town would stay as peaceful as it had been all night. That hope was shattered with the arrival of Sara Hanford and Bret Maverick, who looked pretty good for a man who'd almost been killed several short weeks ago.

"Maverick! Didn't expect to see you here. Where's your brother?"

"That's why we're here, Marshal. Donnie Monroe's got Bart – if he's still alive."

"What? When did this happen?"

Bret made himself stay calm and rational to speed things along. "About 20 minutes ago. Bart and Sara and I were at the Belle du Jour having dinner. Bart went out to get the buggy and never came back."

"How do you know it's Monroe?"

"Who else would it be?"

Jed shook his head. "I don't know, Bret. I would imagine you two can get pretty unpopular at times. Anybody else lookin' for him?"

"No."

"And you know Monroe was on his way here," Sara added.

Jed Thompson looked at her for the first time. "What's your interest in this, Miss Hanford?"

"Bart Maverick is my friend, Marshal. Is that good enough?" she wasn't happy that Jed was wasting precious minutes.

"Just asking. Didn't mean to offend." He turned back to Bret. "Did he have a gun on him?"

"Maybe a derringer. Nothing else."

"Sitting duck, eh?"

"It's my fault he went outside by himself, Jed. I should have gone with him."

"Then I'd have a murder on my hands for sure. Let me think." Jed rubbed his chin for a minute, then started up again. "Monroe doesn't have a place here, so he'd have to take him somewhere. There's two or three abandoned spreads within an hour of here. Probably one of those. That's the most logical." He stopped for just a second and looked right at Bret. "Unless Monroe's already killed him."

"Why not just shoot him at the Belle? Why take the chance of gettin' caught when you could put a bullet in him and no one'd be the wiser?"

"I don't know, Maverick. You got any better ideas?"

Bret unhappily shook his head 'no.' "We've gotta find him. Which place is the most likely?"

"Well, there's the old Scott ranch, it's the closest but the most out in the open. Nobody's been there in years. Then there's the Wilson place, its a couple miles further out. If it was me that's where I'd go. Ranch house secure, only one way to get into the property. The last spread is the least likely, it's hard to find but right next to the Casper farm. Hasn't been empty long, the Peters just went back east. The kids go there to play in the big old barn they had. If we split up I can get to two of 'em. My deputy left his horse saddled up outside. Can you ride?" He gave Bret a look that said 'if you want to save you brother you better be able to.'

"I can ride. Let's go."

Sara started to say something and then stopped. Instead she reached up and kissed Bret on the cheek. "Bring him home, Bret."

"I'll do my best, Sara," he promised. He turned to the Marshal, who was strapping on his gun belt. "I'll take the place that's farthest. The big barn. I've got a hunch."

They left Sara standing in the jail, Jed giving Bret directions to the Casper farm and then on to the deserted Peters ranch. She watched them walk out the door and wondered - of the three of them, how many would come back?


	19. Chapter 19 Dreams of Montana

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 19 – Dreams of Montana

It was starting to get light outside and he was able to see in the barn. Whatever had once been here was gone a while ago; the only things left inside besides the hay in one corner were some wooden crates. Nothing sharp or useable to help cut or untie the ropes around his wrists. His shoulders had begun to ache from the unnatural position they were forced into; his head still hurt and sometimes his vision was fuzzy. The horses and wagon stood in the center of the barn, but there was not much else left. It was useless to wonder where he was; somewhere on the outskirts of Denver was his best guess. Yet the question remained – why was he still alive?

He moved back over to the barn doors and looked outside. There were no lights in the house but the horse remained tied to the hitching rail. Everything looked deserted; there was no way of knowing if anyone lived here anymore. Probably not; it seemed unlikely that Monroe would take him somewhere there were people.

The horse outside whinnied when a man came out the front door of the cabin and headed towards the barn. Bart moved away from the doors and back into the corner with the hay. There were some small wooden crates propped up against the wall and he kicked one over with his foot and sat down. No sense pretending he was anything but awake now. The door lock was removed from its bracket outside and set against the door, and one of the doors swung open slowly. In stepped the left handed cowhand.

"Well, Mr. Maverick, I see that you've recovered from your little accident last night." The man was stocky, not quite as tall as Bart, and Sam was correct, he had sandy colored hair and blue eyes. An ugly, mean looking scar ran from the bottom of his right eye almost down to his mouth. There was an arrogance about him that rubbed most people the wrong way. Bart was no different than anyone else; he already had more than enough reasons to dislike the man.

"Mr. Monroe, I presume."

Monroe made a show of bowing. "At your service."

"Why am I here, other than the obvious?"

Monroe chuckled, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. "You know, I'll be a polite fella and explain it to you. Do you mind if I sit down?" He pulled another crate out from the wall and placed it about 10 feet away. Then he pulled his gun, aimed it at Bart and sat down. "Don't want you gettin' the wrong idea. I was fixin' to do this the easy way – for you. I hired Miller and gave him your name and description. I guess he wasn't as careful as he pretended to be. He didn't pay close enough attention to what I told him. Next thing I know he's tried to kill the wrong man. I understand that you cleaned up that little mess for me. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

"For a while I considered hiring somebody to finish the job that Miller botched. Then I started thinking – why spend more money doing a job that I could do myself? And enjoy doing! So I put my plan into action."

Bart sat and listened to this boy, this man who wasn't much younger than himself, and wondered what kind of a sick, twisted brain you needed in order to derive so much pleasure from another man's pain. Donnie Monroe certainly sounded like Lon Tenley's son.

"So here we are. You definitely made it easy for me to find you. Did you think I wouldn't watch what you were doing? Or was that the whole point of your little charade? See if you could flush the rabbit out of its hiding place and keep your precious brother safe? Did you really think that would work?"

"Didn't it?"

"I guess it depends on your point of view. Who's sitting here with the gun and who's sitting here tied up?"

Bart didn't say anything for a minute or two, just sat and looked at Donnie. Finally he spoke. "What do you want from me, Monroe?"

"Well, ultimately, your life. Not quite sure what comes before that."

"Then why don't you just shoot me and get it over with?"

That evil sounding chuckle again. "Oh I will, Mr. Maverick, I will. All in due time." He got up off of the crate and walked towards the wagon. "It's a real shame that your brother can't be here to watch you die."

Bart was just about through playing Donnie's mind games. "At least he'll get to watch you hang."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that. They have to catch me first, and in order to catch me they have to find me. And in order to find me they have to know where to look. I liked your hideout in Mexico, by the way."

"You knew where I was?" If his own brother couldn't find him, how had Monroe managed it?

"You weren't hard to track. Although I must say, once you quit celebrating your kill it did take a little effort."

"Celebrating my kill?"

The look on Monroe's face turned cold and there was hatred in his eyes. He was pacing back and forth in front of Maverick, waving his gun around. "Of my father."

Bart had long tried to bury the pain and despair he felt when his wife died in his arms. Murdered by Lon Tenley, who had come to the Double C Ranch to kill Bart, Caroline's husband. He'd shot Caroline when she walked in and surprised him, and then he pulled the trigger on Maverick before Bart killed him in self-defense. He had to admit he was glad he'd shot Donnie's father. But 'celebrating his kill' wasn't a fact. He'd have given anything, his life or anything else in the world, in exchange for Caroline's. All over a piece of property that Tenley and his offspring would never own. What a sad waste it had all been.

"You're delusional, Monroe. I shot your father in self-defense."

"You shot him because you wanted to shoot him."

Donnie was not going to hear Bart, no matter what he said, but he repeated it anyway. "Self-defense."

"Shut up."

"He killed my wife."

"Shut up."

"He was trying to steal her land."

"SHUT UP!" Screaming at the top of his lungs, Monroe turned to Bart and slammed him across the face with the pistol, knocking him off the crate and to his knees. Besides the pain inflicted, Bart's head seemed to explode with the old Montana injuries. He fought to stay conscious as his brain tried to shut down. Donnie laughed and it had an evil sound. "I told you to shut up."

It was no use. The fire in his skull, the aching in his head, the agonizing memories banded together to overwhelm him, and he lost the battle. It wasn't a long fall, from his knees to the ground. Or a hard one. At least it stopped the rantings and ravings of a lunatic.

XXXXXXXX

Bret had been on the deputy's horse only a short time when his back and shoulders began throbbing from the strain of riding before his body decided it was acceptable. It didn't matter how much pain he was in, he had to keep going. Bart's very life was at stake. Another similar ride in Montana crossed his mind and he felt reassured; that one turned out alright.

Jed's directions would have been easy enough to follow if it was only daylight. The problem with riding in the dark, in a town and countryside you don't know, is the ease with which you can get lost. And the difficulty in finding your way back again. It isn't simple to backtrack when you can't see where you're going. He finally had to admit he was lost and completely retrace his route, all the while using up precious minutes of time. Things got slightly less complicated once the sun came up; at least he found the landmarks Thompson mentioned and got himself straightened out.

Finally he found the Casper farm and knew he was close to his destination. What if his hunch was wrong? What if the Marshal found Monroe and his brother before he did? Would he be as careful trying to extricate Bart from the situation or was Thompson's only goal to apprehend Donnie Monroe? Was that his goal at all? Bart was a professional gambler, after all, not always a peace officers favorite person. What would it hurt if he was killed in the process?

'_Stop it, Bret,'_ he told himself. _'Thompson's not like that. He'll do the best he can.' _What if his best wasn't good enough?

XXXXXXXX

Again he found himself wondering how much time had passed. Was he unconscious days, hours, minutes? Was this even the same lifetime?

His face hurt bad enough where Monroe hit him; the repercussions of the blow controlled the excruciating pain in the rest of his head. Did Donnie know the exact nature of the terrible abuse heaped on him in Montana by both a human being and his own body? Was that the whole purpose of the punch Monroe leveled at him?

Too many questions, not enough answers. He finally opened his eyes and tried to focus on something besides the pain. The only thing in front of him was his tormentor.

"Ah, welcome back, Mr. Maverick. You've not been too successful at staying awake, have you? Well, never fear, very soon you'll be able to sleep to your heart's content. Mr. Maverick? Mr. Maverick?"

Why stay awake for more of Monroe's' demented nonsense? He closed his eyes again and let himself drift back into that peaceful place he found in Montana . . . . .


	20. Chapter 20 The Hound Dog

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 20 – The Hound Dog

The air smelled sweet. The grass was green and lush; if you listened close enough you could hear the river as it made its gentle turn around the bend and embraced the earth. Rose was there, and their two little girls. They looked just like her and she ran and played with them while he rested his head comfortably on the blanket. Bret was just arriving, with his new wife and their hound dog. Damn dog chased everything in six counties. Beau and Georgia were down at the river, fishing for dinner and laughing their heads off. Jody's little boy, Bartley Beauregard Cole, was into mischief like always. Even Samantha and her fiancée were there, unloading a picnic basket. Yes sir, life was good. Bart closed his eyes and from far, far away he could hear Rose calling to him, "Bart! Bart don't go back to sleep!"

And then it all started to slip away. He could feel pulling on him, like someone was dragging him off the blanket against his will, and he fought to stay there with everyone he loved. The tugging became more insistent and soon he was falling, falling down a long dark hole that opened up underneath him. The grass was gone, and the blanket, and all of his kin. Someone was talking to him in a disagreeable voice, and he didn't want to listen. But it just kept droning in his ear, insisting that he pay attention or it would do what? Wait until his brother found them and kill him? But Bret was right here, wasn't he?

He reached out his hand to grasp his brother's arm and grabbed the side of a wooden crate. Slowly he opened his eyes and waited for the insistent voice to stop telling him to wake up, wake up, it was no good killing him if he wasn't aware it was happening – his head started focusing about the same time as his eyes. The only person in front of him was Donnie Monroe, who was shaking him with one hand and holding a gun on him with the other.

"Go away, Donnie," he muttered through clenched teeth. His head still wasn't free of cobwebs. Where was he? Oh yeah, a barn somewhere outside of Denver. And the belligerent, irrational man in front of him? That was Donnie Monroe, who was determined to kill him, or some such nonsense. That would be fine with him as long as he could go back to his picnic.

Instead a bucket of water was thrown in his face and he gasped, unable to breathe for a moment. He coughed and sputtered and shook his head to get the water out of his eyes so he could stop whatever was happening from happening again. He tried to wipe his face but his hands were tied behind his back, a terribly painful position to be in. And Donnie's voice kept droning on, something about waking up so he could die and Donnie could watch him do it. He wasn't sure about anything other than the fact that this most distasteful person intended to do great bodily harm to him. Or Bret. Or someone.

"Maverick, if you don't sit up I'll shoot you where you lay." That awful voice again, this time right in his ear. Why wouldn't it go away? And then, without warning, the voice had a boot attached to it and it kicked him in the stomach, hard. And then again. He let out an awful moan and went into a coughing spasm; the boot landed right in the center of the healed knife wounds and suddenly his whole belly was on fire. He was awake and in pain in the same instant.

"Monroe?" The question was all he could get out and it sounded pathetic. There was no immediate answer, just hands roughly grabbing him by the arms and pulling him around into a semi-sitting position, leaning against the crate. He shook his head again and tried to focus on the pain, hoping it would give his consciousness something to hold on to. It was a slippery thing, trying to stay awake and attentive when every part of your being tells you to flee, flee, flee, back down the rabbit hole where no one could find you.

"Yeah, it's me, Maverick. Open your eyes."

Weren't they open? Sure they were. There was Rose with their girls, and Bret and . . . . . . there was nothing. He tried, he really tried. The pain in his belly was getting worse and he had that same sticky feeling he'd had last night. Finally he could see through little, little tiny slits that gave him vision of an ugly sight, the man who wanted to kill him. Wait, he was dead already, wasn't he? No, if he was dead he wouldn't hurt this much.

"I said open your eyes."

"Did already," he mumbled.

"No, you didn't," was the next thing he heard, followed by a stinging slap across the face. When he didn't respond quick enough a harder slap followed. Okay, he'd try again. This time they actually opened enough for him to see the man in front of him, see the barn door open behind the man, see a flash of light as the gun fired just a few inches from his face, and finally hear the one thing he was waiting for. A decisive gunshot and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Followed by a question from a familiar voice. "Bart?"

XXXXXXXX

Jed Thompson was correct; once you got to the Casper farm it was easy enough to find the Peters place. There was a small cabin with a horse tied out front; a big barn, wagon tracks that led into the barn and didn't lead back out, and the doors closed and locked.

He could hear a voice inside the barn and it wasn't his brother's. It was unfamiliar; he assumed it to be Monroe's. Then silence for a minute or two, followed by another voice that was so quiet it was barely audible. Was that Bart or was he hearing things?

Next followed a loud 'splash' that sounded like someone throwing a bucket of water. Bret drew his gun and snuck around to the end of the barn that had an open door. Someone was choking and coughing; obviously the water was thrown in their face. Then the unfamiliar voice again, threatening and cajoling at the same time. All Bret could catch of the voice was " . . . . . shoot you where you lay."

Something brutal, physical and painful could be heard; exactly what was unclear. There was an anguished moan followed by more coughing. Bret recognized the moan as Bart's. What was Monroe doing to him? And a single word, uttered as a question. "Monroe?" That was his brother. More sounds of a body being drug or moved against its will and without its cooperation. Another order from Monroe; something mumbled and inaudible by Bart. The same order repeated, then the unmistakable sound of a slap. Just a few seconds passed before he heard another slap, this one louder and harder sounding than the first. Bret got a look in through the open door; Monroe was standing over his brother with his gun inches from Bart's face. Bart was sprawled on the ground, half braced up against a wooden crate, hands tied behind his back and large welts across his cheeks. The kidnapper was turned sideways, with his back partially towards the open door and Bret eased a step inside just as Monroe looked up and saw him. His gun was out and he fired, the bullet skidded inches away from Bret's head. The lunatic gave Maverick an opening and Bret took it. Not always the most accurate shot with a gun, this was one he wasn't about to miss.

He took two steps inside and then asked the most important question of the day: "Bart?"

XXXXXXXX

He didn't imagine it, Bret was really there. He gasped and let out a groan; his head hurt, his face hurt, his shoulders, arms and wrists hurt and his belly hurt. Seconds later he was in Bret's arms as his brother untied his hands and finally freed his shoulders from their unnatural and painful position.

He couldn't see what Bret saw; dried blood on the back of his head and down his neck, three large red welts, one darker than the others, across his face, and bloodstains dotting his shirt and seeping on to his vest. Was this the same man Bret had seen just a few hours ago? He looked like hell.

"Bart, what did he do to you?" There was dismay and panic in his voice; Bret was concerned about Bart's previous head injuries. His eyes were unfocused and he had the same glassy-eyed look he had when he first come around in Montana.

Bart was still drifting in and out of consciousness. "Nothing . . . .hasn't been done before."

Bret saw the wagon and knew his best chance was to get his brother into it and get him back to Denver as fast as possible. If the old knife wounds had been reopened he could bleed to death in a short amount of time. "Bart, I've got to get you up . . . . into the wagon. I need you to focus and help me do that. Don't close your eyes, Bart. Do you understand? Don't close your eyes."

"Uh-huh." It was barely audible, but Bart heard him and fought to keep his eyes open. Bret got his arms behind his brother and the two of them struggled to get Bart on his feet. As soon as he was standing Bret put Bart's left arm around his neck and half dragged, half carried him over to the wagon. They could go no further without getting Bart in it; Bret was finally forced into putting his groggy brother over his shoulders and hoisting him as gently as he could over the side. Bart moaned again and Bret knew he had to see how bad the bleeding was. "Hold still, Bart, I've got to check for bleeding. I'll be as gentle as I can."

He unbuttoned his brother's shirt as carefully as he could, one button at a time, all the way down. Bret was unhappy to find the blood greater than he'd feared; most of it appeared to be centered around the middle wound, which was angry and swollen; it had taken the brunt of the blows. He buttoned the shirt back up and then climbed down to grab the blanket Donnie had so carelessly tossed on the ground last night. He covered Bart, removing his own coat and folding it under his brother's head to cushion it, and then went back to the barn doors and opened the one that still remained closed. He climbed up on the seat and urged the horses forward, finally completing the circle they'd started the night before. Bart was strangely quiet except for an occasional moan and Bret tried to take the ride easy. No matter what Monroe had done to his brother, the eldest Maverick worried the most about the head trauma. After the beating in Montana and the unexplainable seizures that followed, Bart didn't need a recurrence. About hallway back to Denver Jed Thompson came into view and walked his horse alongside the wagon. He could see that it was Bart inside and that he appeared to be in bad shape.

"Monroe?" the marshal asked, although the answer was obvious.

"Dead," came the expected reply.

"How bad is he?" was the next question, pointing to Bart.

"Don't know for sure. Looks like Monroe beat him some – he had Bart's hands tied behind his back. Did you hear about what happened in Montana?"

"More or less," the marshal answered.

"That's why I'm worried," Bret explained. "Took him a long time to get over the damage a pistol-whipping like that causes. I don't want to see him go through that again."

"Understood. Get him to Doc Samuels. I'll take care of things out at the Peters. Good luck." With that the Marshal turned his horse towards the Peters Ranch and left.

XXXXXXXX

It was afternoon when the wagon reached Dr. Samuel's office. Bret tied the horses to the hitching rail and rushed inside to get the doctor. He wasn't surprised to find Sara there, waiting to see who came back alive. The two men managed to get Bart out of the wagon and partially on his feet; Bret got his brothers arm around his neck again, then with a man on either side they staggered into the office. Bart was still half-conscious and for the most part incoherent. He called Sara 'Rose' at first and later 'Caroline.' Once inside the doctor immediately took a look at the reopened wounds and pronounced it necessary for more stitches. Bart moaned loudly; even in his confused state the word 'stitches' brought memories of pain. "Half to?" he managed to ask.

"Yes, we have to," the doctor answered. He turned to Bret and Sara. "Does he drink?" Dr. Samuels asked Bret.

"No."

"Then I need you to hold him down," the doctor explained. "I've got nothing to help with the pain."

Sara started to leave the room but Bart grabbed for her hand. "Don't go," he pleaded.

"Alright, I'll stay," she promised him. He held on to her hand tightly as the doctor began the painful task.

Bart never made another sound. When the pain got to be too much he simply passed out.

"That's my boy," Bret volunteered as he turned loose of his brother's shoulders. "When the going gets tough, the Mavericks pass out. Especially if there's blood."

Bret gently removed Sara's hand from Bart's now comatose one and led her out into the doctor's office.

"But I promised," she protested.

"Yes, I know you did. And if he was still conscious I would've left you in there; but he's not. Let the doctor do his job without us in the way."

"Where did you find him?"

"Out at the old Peters place," Bret answered. "Monroe had him tied up in the barn. I can only assume he was going to kill Bart; God only knows what he actually did." Bret shook his head and looked unhappy. There was an edge of bitterness in his voice. "I would have been there sooner but I kept getting lost in the dark."

Sara put her hand on Bret's arm. "It's a good thing you got there when you did. Is Monroe dead?"

"Yep," he sighed. "Not soon enough."

"What's wrong?"

He hesitated to ask her the next question, but he needed to know the answer. "Did he tell you about Montana?"

"Yes, he did. Well, some, at least."

"Did he tell you he almost died three times?"

"Noooooooooo."

Bret started pacing the floor in the room, round and round in circles. "He was pistol-whipped in his hotel room so bad that we didn't know if he was gonna live for two days. And it took more than that before he even started to make any sense."

"My God, Bret, I didn't know."

"He was arrested for a murder he didn't commit and spent weeks in jail and in court. He had two episodes during that time – one in the jail cell, one in court – that the doctor described as 'seizures of an unknown origin.' He almost died both times. Don't know what caused 'em, don't know what stopped 'em." He paused for a minute; he hadn't realized this would make him so emotional. He thought back to the months after leaving Montana. And everything he and Sam went through with Bart, trying to get him healthy again. "There were more problems after we went to New Mexico. It took a long time for him to heal."

"He never told me any of that. Just about your aunt and sister and Pike."

Bret shook his head. "He wouldn't. He doesn't talk about it."

Sara still didn't have an answer to her 'what's wrong' question. "So why tell me now?"

"You saw the blood on his head and neck. And you saw the welts on his face when we brought him in. Monroe beat him. When I got there he was unconscious – and when he wasn't, he was incoherent. Vacant stare, glassy-eyed, babbling, just like in Montana. What if this triggers another 'episode?' What if I lose my brother for good this time?" Bret stopped and walked over to the office window. If he didn't say another word right now he might be able to keep his self-respect. He turned his back to Sara and looked out into the rapidly growing 'city.' What would he do without Bart?

She had no idea how close the brothers were. How worried the man in front of her was. And how much pain he was in. Monroe might as well have beaten him. She walked over to the window and rested her hand on his back. "Bret – "

He felt her touch and it was like lightning shooting through him. He turned from the window to face the woman and pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. Maybe she wouldn't see the tears if they stood there long enough. She put her arms around him and held him for minutes, silently, while he considered the rest of his life without his brother. It was not a pleasant scenario.

When Dr. Samuels came out of the exam room several minutes later they were sitting side by side, waiting for him. Sara had Bret's hand in hers and they were talking quietly. "Well, it's all over."

Bret looked at the doctor, terrified out of his wits. Dr. Samuels quickly realized his mistake. "No, no, I'm sorry, I mean I'm done for now and you can go in to see him."

"Is he awake?" Sara asked the doctor.

"Not just yet. But I imagine he will be any time."

"How is he?" Bret finally trusted his voice to ask.

"Stitches are gonna hurt. Obviously he'll understand that, he's had plenty of them. He might have a concussion; we won't know that for a while. And his face is going to be sore for a few days. What happened to the other fellow?" Dr. Samuels' asked innocently.

"He's dead," Bret stated matter-of-factly. "He's Jed Thompson's problem now."

"Are you two always in this much trouble?" The doctor asked the question with a smile and he'd seen both men's scars; obviously he knew the answer.

"No, Doc," Bret answered honestly, "Sometimes it's worse."


	21. Chapter 21 Rose, the Girls and BB Cole

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 21 – Rose, the Girls, and B.B. Cole

He opened his eyes slowly and had to blink twice before they focused. All he could see were white walls and cabinets with bottles in them. Where was he? He was tired of waking up and not knowing. He looked again at the walls. Now he recognized this place. He'd seen it before, from different angles. This was the doctor's office. Why was he here?

He tried to move and his belly hurt. And his shoulders were sore. And his face burned and throbbed like someone had set him on fire. AND the back of his head hurt. Was there any part of him that didn't hurt? No more need to wonder why he was here.

He shifted his slightly fuzzy gaze downward. His brother was asleep in a chair. With his mouth open and snoring. Not a pretty sight. And Bret said he snored! He tried to say something but nothing came out. He tried again. "Bret." It was barely a whisper. "Bret." Only slightly louder, but enough to do the job. Bret closed his mouth and jumped, both at the same time.

"Huh? Bart?" It was a reasonable assumption, given that Bart was lying right in front of him. "Are you awake?"

"No," was about all he could manage right now.

"Hey, Bart, you're back."

"Yeah." On top of everything else his throat was raw. "Water?"

"Yep. I'll get some." Bret stood up and walked across the room. When he came back he had a glass half full of water in his hands. He got his arm under Bart's head and raised it enough to drink, then held the glass to his lips. Bart drank gratefully, thirstily, almost all of it. It was easier to speak when he finished.

"At Doc's?"

"Yep, we're at Dr. Samuels'. Been waitin' a while for you to wake up. How's the head?"

A small moan. "Hurts."

"I imagine it does. And your belly?"

The answer was the same. "Hurts."

"Doctor put ten stitches in. Sorry, he had to. You were busted open and bleeding again."

"Kicked me. Monroe?" Bart had trouble keeping his eyes open but he needed an answer from Bret.

"Dead." There was no joy in the statement; Bret had killed Donnie in self-defense. He would have killed him anyway, if he'd gotten there too late to save his brother. It didn't surprise him to realize that he was capable of cold-blooded murder.

Bart smiled and closed his eyes. "Good." Now the rest of the world was safe from the madman.

"Bart?"

"Hmmmmm?"

"I'm sorry I took so long to find you."

It required a minute for Bart to put all the words together in the right order. "Next time we go to dinner . . . . . . we walk."

XXXXXXXX

When he next opened his eyes he knew where he was. And he knew that was Doctor Samuels poking and prodding him. "Mr. Maverick, how are you this morning? Feeling any better at all?"

That was an easy question to answer. "Nope."

"How's your head?"

What kind of an answer did the doctor expect? "Still hurts."

"Yes, well, I imagine it does. Your brother just left to get something to eat. He was here with you all night. I'm sure he'll be back shortly. Sara Hanford's been in this morning, too. Said she was bringing down a pot of coffee when she came back. Course that's not on your menu, yet. How's the pain elsewhere this morning? If it's too bad I've got some laudanum I can give you for it."

He'd had enough of that stuff in Montana. "None of that."

"Alright, your choice, Mr. Maverick. I'd like you to stay here today, then we can see about getting you moved elsewhere. Your hotel room, I'd imagine." The front door opened and Dr. Samuels could see that it was Sara carrying a coffee pot. "Sara, just put it on the burner in my office. I'll be right there. Oh, by the way, Mr. Maverick's awake."

"Doc – all this time. Bart, please."

"Alright, Mr. – Bart."

Dr. Samuels left and was replaced by a much prettier face. Sara's. "Hello, sunshine," she greeted him.

"Sara." It took him just a minute to tell her, "Sorry, no hat to tip."

"Oh," she looked at him, surprised. "Jokes already. Are you feeling better?"

Why did everyone keep asking that when the answer should be obvious? "No."

Her look was pensive. "I happen to have a spare bedroom that can be rented for a reasonable fee, you know."

"Sure?"

She laughed and for the first time he realized what a pretty, lilting laugh she had. "Yes, I'm sure. You can't stay at the hotel by yourself. And I certainly wouldn't trust Bret to take care of you. At least not for a while. He'd go off to play poker and forget to feed you for two or three days." She thought about her statement for a minute and then added, "Not that it would make a whole lot of difference to you."

"Beg to differ with you. That long would." He tried to smile at her and that's when he discovered just how sore his face was. _'Let's see,'_ he thought back to yesterday. _'First a pistol, then a slap. Then another slap. Yep, it would be sore.'_

"Ask Bret how well I treat my prisoners. I come highly recommended."

"Sure you do. Deal."

She was pleased to hear him give in without any arguing. "Good. I'll get the room ready."

"One thing," Bart stopped her. "Books. Need books. And a Bible."

That was one thing that had never crossed her mind. "A Bible?" she asked.

"A Bible."

A Bible. The man totally surprised her. Who would have thought?

"And a California Prayer Book."

"What?"

"A deck of cards."

Back to the real world.

XXXXXXXX

He'd just closed his eyes again when that familiar voice was heard. "You awake?"

Of course not. Why ask the question? "Bret?"

"Yep. Just wondered how you felt."

"Like a horse stepped on me. Back from breakfast already?"

"Breakfast? Son, it's supper time. You slept all day."

"Oh." Long pause while he digested that information. "You don't have to sit here, you know."

"I wanted to talk to you." That worried him. What did Bret have on his mind now?

"I want to know how your head is."

"Still hurts."

"I don't mean the outside of your head. I know that hurts. I mean the inside of your head."

"What?"

"When I found you in the barn you were completely incoherent. Like you were in Montana. Do we have to deal with that again? Are you really you?"

"Lotta questions." Bart seemed disturbed by them; not at Bret.

"I know that's a lot of questions. But I need a lot of answers."

Bart was silent for a moment. He remembered pieces of the dream – or the hallucination, whichever was correct – he remembered Rose and their girls, and Bret's hound dog – and Bartley Beauregard Cole. All his family. But that was all. Nothing else. If his conscious mind had slipped off into the world that came alive in Montana, it was back here with him now. He looked right at his brother and did everything he could to let him know who he was.

"Yes sir, I'm really me. Bartley Jamison Maverick. Now, can I go back to sleep?"


	22. Chapter 22 High End of the Boat

Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 22 – High End of the Boat

In due time Dr. Samuels allowed Bart to be moved to Sara's house, but he ordered strict bed rest for the gambler. With the original stitches having been torn loose, they were even more fragile this time and Bart risked permanent damage if they weren't allowed proper healing time.

Bret started playing poker again and Bart's winning streak smiled on the elder Maverick. As long as this run of good cards held he had no reason to leave Denver. Between Bret's lessons and Bart's, Sara became a top notch poker player. And Bart taught her the cribbage and whist that Rose taught him.

Bret took to riding the roan just to keep the horse exercised and Sara joined him on several occasions. The brothers laughed about sharing a girlfriend and Sara more or less laughed with them. Somewhere along the line it became obvious that Bart was her preference but also the least interested in anything other than friendship. Bret eventually started keeping company with a dancer at the 'Denver City Dance Hall and Saloon' named Catterine and suffered no broken heart over Sara.

Bart wrote letters to Rose and she wrote back. He didn't tell her about all the trouble, just that he was staying in Denver for a while, and had all mail sent to Bret's hotel. Had she known, she would have been on the first train. Since it was only a matter of time until Bart's injuries healed he saw no sense in disrupting her life in that way.

One afternoon Bret came by to see his brother after a particularly long and exceedingly difficult poker game ended in his favor. He wasn't tired but he'd had enough of cards for the day and wanted to give Sara a chance to get out of the house and go visit friends. Bart was improving daily and it wouldn't be long before he too was ready to leave. Sara needed to start working on her social life again.

"So, Brother Bart, what's next? St. Louis? New Orleans? Kansas – no, I guess not there. Any ideas?"

"I'm open to suggestions, Brother Bret. Got any?"

"You know Pappy wants us to come home for a while, don't you?"

Bart had to chuckle at that one. "Three days with Pappy in that little house and we'd all be looking for some place to hide."

"Naw, he says he and Uncle Ben are finally gonna put the spreads together and live in the big house. They've hired somebody to run cattle while they keep the locals amused. He swears it's gonna happen this time."

"Pappy and Ben can't live together any more than we can."

Bret shook his head, disagreeing with his brother. "They're getting old, Bart. They're both tired of living alone. Uncle Ben's talked Lily Mae into moving out to the ranch with them, permanent. They seem determined to make it stick this time. The big house has got plenty of room. They want us to come down and stay for a while. What about it?"

Bart thought about it for a minute but just couldn't get a visit with his father and his uncle into his head. "I can't, Bret. I've been beat up for so long I don't think I could take those three together for more than a day or two. I need to do something different. I was reading in the paper there's a new river queen coming out of St. Louis and heading for Bayou country. She's the 'Mississippi Bayou Belle' and she's leaving port next month. There's a passel of big shots going with her, poker playing big shots. I haven't been down river in a long time. This could be just what I've been looking for. What do you say? Wanna go with me?"

It was a tempting offer. "High end or low end of the boat?"

"Whatever we can afford. I already wired Garrett, he can get us an invitation if we want one. You game?"

Hmmm. A new river boat. Nobody hunting for either one of them. Best of all, no Samantha and her book of Hoyle. "Alright, I'm in. You sure now? I thought there was a woman making you crazy."

Bart didn't tell him that it was Anderson Garrett's own daughter. Or about the two little girls in his 'dream.' Rose would wait or she wouldn't wait, it was all up to her. Denver had once again proven to him that he wasn't ready to settle down. "That'll keep."


End file.
